Growing to…
by StarsOfYaoi
Summary: *GerIta* Germany is forced to come to terms with Italy's feelings for him, but war has subtle ways to interfere. Forced to switch sides due to his brother and against his will, Italy unwillingly delivers the worst kind of betrayal Germany has ever felt.
1. Prologue: A Nation's end

**SOY:** this is a long–time project for an APH fanfic with angst, and an actual plot that moves from the WWII onwards. Short–ish chapters, though.

Please check the warnings before you start reading, it's important.

Germany/Italy main pairing. HRE/Chibitalia past pairing. HRE!Germany theory applies here. it'll get a bit to get there, though.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: R

**Story Warnings:** Shounen–ai. Yaoi. A bit dark. Angst. NC17 happening at least twice in the course of this fic. This is placed partly in WWII, with some flashbacks at certain times, interaction between countries, but then it'll move afterwards, in present times. The main pairing will be , with past HRE/Chibitalia. HRE!Germany theory applies to this fic. Some minor pairing might appear in the background, such as Spain/Romano?

**Chapter Warnings:** the death of a nation. Holy Roman Empire's last moments.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Prelude – a Nation's end**

The once beautiful land, with lush green grass and trees shivering softly because of the wind, was now barren –the ground soiled with blood that had been shed moments before, extracted from a battle that had escalated for years and had now ended.

It was a massacre. Just like war always was.

Bodies were scattered everywhere, both wearing enemy uniforms or allies' ones; some were still struggling under deathly wounds, and were going to die, but couldn't let go of life, others simply waited for help to come –or the hands of an enemy to end their life.

Eyes lost to the sky, wanting to look at something wide and clear and empty as the last thing they could see, instead of the endless sea of blood and the corpses they were part of.

Desolation, sufferance, despair…

France was struggling to keep standing, his legs almost ready to give up under the weight of his body, and he took a shuddering breathe, gasping for air; his clothes were bloody and tattered and dirty, his lungs filled with disgusting stench of corpses and death, his eyes…

… his eyes were darkened up, unable to look away from the gruesome sight that made his heart clench in his chest.

Everywhere he could look, everywhere he turned, was the same.

People dying. People shuddering, in pain, some crying, some sobbing, some attempting to drag their unresponsive bodies away –some lying there, having given up.

Had France not been accustomed to that, he would have yelled in despair, running away, and even with his experience he could barely stand still anyway.

This was a wanted sacrifice.

And yet, the war had ended with this battle. They had won… and again, the victory was tasteless, bitter, empty.

This sight, this outcome… again, it was heartbreaking. Lives lost, lives that would never come back. He could feel each loss deep inside his chest, the blood seeping through the soil. The pain was sharp.

Far too much.

He had won, though –at least that knowledge helped him ignore the pain, making him grimace but not look down.

"Francis… _monsieur_…"

France turned. It was one of the soldiers still alive, even though he was clearly exhausted and pale for the blood loss.

The general, the commander, _him_ (a name that would be remembered forever, France knew it) had already left the site, leaving the soldiers behind, but Francis had remained, unwilling to leave until–

Gritting his teeth, the French Nation stared at the human. He wasn't really in the mood to talk with his people, but he had to. The man was a fighter, he deserved attention… he had fought hard for _him_, for France.

"_Qu'est ce que vous voulez, soldat?_" he asked brusquely.

"We… we found him" the man coughed.

France stiffened. Before the attack he had asked the soldiers to look out for someone, and apparently, they had.

Finally forcing his numb limbs to move, he followed his soldier through the maimed, dead bodies, to the one he had known far too well since his early childhood.

They had once lived in the same house, ate the same food, spoke together… but that was the past. They had turned enemies then, fought for years.

He was… so small.

In death, the body of his enemy looked even smaller, hair no more composed under the familiar hat, eyes closed, a blood trail seeping through his lips and down a pale chin. He was barely bigger than the last time he'd seen him, unable to grow, with all the impositions and fights and territory leaving him…

'_So… I fought for this…'_ he thought, his eyes narrowed.

Looking at it like this… looking at the small body between so many… that cloak, dirtied with blood and soil… eyes that would not open again… France was hit suddenly by a shocking thought –he had just killed… one of his own.

Not humans. No, this had been a Nation, like him.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he clenched his fists. In order to aid his allies, in order to make space in the world… he had aided in destroying, killing and ripping through one of his own; when had been the last time a Nation had truly, really died? Disappearing in a pile of blood and territories, to give birth to other Nations, spreading through others?

'_Will I have to explain this to Austria?'_ he had not spoken to the man in… what, centuries? Or was it just months? Time lost its meaning when you were a Nation. It didn't matter much.

Then, another thought hit him, and brought a pain way stronger than any other. France hissed and turned his back to the body, unable to look at it anymore, the face of the dead Nation melting into another one –just as chubby, just as little and helpless.

"How… how will I tell Petit Italie about that?" France's voice, that had never wavered before, now shook to the core. "_Mon Dieu_… what will I tell him? I… _I killed Holy Roman Empire_…"

…–…–…–…–…

Darkness.

There was darkness all around him, black, oppressing, choking him–

What was happening? Why did everything hurt?

He tried to open his mouth, yell, cry, because the pain flaring through his tiny body was scorching him… but he couldn't. His body was not responding him anymore, his eyes didn't open, his mouth kept close…

'_Am… am I dying?'_

A fleeting thought hit him like a rock, and he remembered where he was. He had lost against France. He was broken. Ripped. Conquered. Just like Roman Empire… he had been defeated. His life… his life was at its end. He'd fought with all his wavering strength, but in the end, it had not been enough.

His chance was gone.

'_Oh, God…'_ hot tears burned down his cheeks, but he couldn't feel them.

He couldn't feel his body anymore… just the burning pain –because even in his last moments, he was a Nation… and the pain of his people was his own. And he knew what was going to happen, and he couldn't do anything.

If he couldn't feel his arms, his legs, his chest –did that mean he was already disintegrating? Did it mean his fingers were already vanishing in thin air, to return to the soil they had been born from?

He had looked too high in the sky. He had wanted to be… he had wanted to be something he could _never_ be.

He had failed his promise to…

'_I… Italia…'_ the tears fell with doubled intensity as the cheerful face of his beloved, Italia, flashed through his rapidly vanishing mind. _'My sweet Italia… you were right…'_

Regret –a painful flame so strong it managed to overwhelm the physical waves of agony that washed through him in constant waves; he wanted to go back to that little maid. Listen to her words of wisdom… she had been so right. Hurt by her own grandfather, Roman Empire, and his death… would she cry for him too, now that he was dying of a similar death?

Would she keep a memory of him in her heart as she grew up? Would she still love him, despite everything, even though he'd ignored her warnings, blinded by greed?

She would grow up beautifully, and be strong for herself, and she would never fall into the same mistakes he did.

'_I'm so sorry… I loved you so much but in the end, my dream of a house where to protect you and love you forever… will never… never…'_

Sobs wracked him from the inside.

Oh, God, nothing had ever hurt as much as the thought of leaving her behind forever.

Over his lost territories, over his lost pride, his pain, his defeat… Holy Roman Empire, in his last moments, cried for his lost love, that he would never see again.

For the love that filled his thoughts and his life, for the love that gave colour and taste to a otherwise empty desire for power, giving it a heart and a spirit and a soul. A love that he had nurtured as much as he could, a love that offered him happy moments.

Silent tears trickled down his now transparent cheeks, the very essence of his being losing strength, losing will to exist–

'_I wish I had more time to spend with you. To see your smile, to touch your lips again…'_

Then, the Nation allowed darkness to consume him, and take him away where Italia could not follow.

'_Goodbye, my lovely Italia…'_

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** the prologue is out. Will you please drop me a comment to know whether it's good or not? Thank you!

_Qu'est ce que vous voulez, soldat?__(French) _– What is it that you want, soldier?

_Petit Italie (French)_ – Little Italy.

_Mon Dieu (French)_ – My God.


	2. Denied Confession

**SOY:** first chapter for this fic. It's still a long way to go, but I hope you will keep on reading, hmm? Enjoy!

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: Rated M.

**Chapter Warnings:** NC17 of a strange sort of way. Please read before judging. Angst?

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Chapter 01 – Denied Confession**

"Ok, that's all, for today" straightening his back after a long day of work, Ludwig turned to his two companions. "You're free until tomorrow".

Observing the two allies, Germany tried to refrain from sighing in exasperation; even though Japan had worked on par with his requirements, Italy had failed once again to meet Germany's expectations, lagging behind and being utterly useless. Now, the Italian was on the ground, gasping and with cheeks strangely flushed (which was happening far too often lately), whilst Japan was standing on the side, tired and peering at the panting Italy with unease.

"It was nice of you to join us for training today, Kiku" ignoring his Italian ally, Germany turned towards Japan, nodding in appreciation.

At least _Japan_ didn't complain about not having had pasta for lunch or being forced to give up on his siesta… even if he was far too indecisive when it came to answer directly to questions.

"Aha" Japan replied, shifting uneasily and keeping his gaze on Italy. "Uh… Feliciano–kun…? Are you… are you ok?"

"Of course he's ok" Germany growled, rolling his eyes. Feliciano was an ace at being easily tired and complaining.

Japan, to his defence, _did_ look like he wanted to add something important about that, but then flushed more and looked to the ground. In the meanwhile, Italy had finally managed to stand back up, albeit wobbly, and gave a flushed salute to his allies.

"I'll… uh, I'll be going now, then" he muttered, smiling a bit. "See you tomorrow, Ludwig, Kiku~!"

Germany this time _did_ sigh. Italy truly was a lost cause. The more he messed up, the more he wanted to kick the teachings into the Nation; it couldn't be possible that he could be so _bad_ at everything, so pathetic, and weak, and yet there he was, after a day spent complaining…

Trying to find new ways to get Italy to listen was growing tedious, and the only method that worked was pulling his curl over and over, something that Germany had abused doing for the last few days, too.

Pulling that strange curl of hair caused an instant reaction –the Italian man would flush crimson and shut up, trembling and listening quietly to the blond Nation's yells and cursing; it would last for a moment, and Germany could only wonder about how sensitive that strand of hair was.

Still, he'd been using that thing far too many times lately, and without knowing of another way, he could only resort to curl–pulling whenever Feliciano didn't listen.

Unfortunately for him, Italy was forgetful, too –apparently he learned nothing from their training and punishment sessions; he was impossible to deal with, and even though Germany had come to care for him, almost to the point of acting more like a worried mother than a commander, or a friend, it still was truly bothersome.

If not as an ally, Germany wished he could help Italy grow strong as a friend –his first friend, at that, no matter how useless– enough to show others that he could take a few battles, as well…

'_That's almost an unattainable dream, or an impossible wish'_ shaking his head, Germany's shoulders slumped in defeat.

Currently, for mere seven hours of training, Germany had ended up resorting to the curl method exactly ten times, reducing him to a mass of fidgety, trembling Italian.

He wished he could understand him –but he couldn't. Really.

Even then, Germany found himself following Italy in his retreat, after giving Japan a quick nod and barely noticing when the Asian nation also went back home; he couldn't hide the rush of worry for the Italian nation despite always yelling at him, and he _did_ promise him to keep Italy safe, after all…

'_I'm not wasting time –he did look pretty overworked today, even by his standards'_ he thought, almost an excuse but not entirely one either.

It was nothing more than wanting to keep his ally safe, of course –they were in the middle of the war against the Alliance, they couldn't allow themselves to waver –he trusted Japan to get back home safely, but certainly Italy would find a way to screw up even taking a walk (since the Italian Nation had stopped going all the way back home, insisting in spending time at Germany's house instead).

Keeping himself hidden from Italy, Germany followed him through the woods, ignoring how part of his brain was rationalizing his care and friendship for Italy, and kept reassuring himself that no, he was hiding just because he didn't need Italy to come clinging at his arm and spout nonsense (_"I knew you loved me~ Ludwig is so nice~"_).

… that would be embarrassing. And not true. Ludwig surely didn't like Feliciano that way, no matter how attractive the idea of an Italian housewife had been, back then– _'let's stop here' _he ordered to his brain, halting the unwanted thoughts.

Steering his mind against more strange mental images, Germany focused his attention back on what he was doing and it was then that he realised that Italy was not going towards the nearest town –nor was he going back to Italian territories, either.

Unwanted coldness seeped through his body as Germany paid more attentions to the morphology around him.

They were moving in French territories, and despite having fought against France a few times already, and coming out as a winner, Germany shuddered, not liking to be outside of safe territory. Muscles tensing up, he fought the urge to frown and reach out for the Italian.

He really didn't like it.

Why was Italy taking a stroll through France woods?

Was he –Germany couldn't believe he was thinking that about an ally (especially about Italy, who was as devoted and loyal to Germany as one of his dogs), but… he couldn't stop it –was Italy betraying him? Their pact?

Was there another option? Italy was by all means close to France, they had history together; they had lived close to each other, and of course Italy used to call France–

"Brother Fra~ncis!"

Attention instantly focused on Italy, Germany watched as the Italian suddenly started running and tackled France to the ground, clearly happy and beaming.

Germany froze; an enemy had appeared –France, of all people– and he hadn't noticed, far too busy scolding Italy in his mind…

And of course, instead of running away, Italy had just tackled him, with such a familiarity that it left Germany with twitchy fingers, unsure on what to do.

Glancing around, it took the German nation a bit to recognise where they were –it was one of Francis' vacation houses, apparently, in the outskirts of his territories but enough distant from Paris that the Frenchman could rest and relax, hidden from his people.

Even to him, the property looked positively gorgeous.

The villa was big, painted white, and it had a huge garden with flowers and even a small pool –to think that France had enough free time to waste away like this made Germany feel proud of himself –he was strict, but they were in war time…

"Feliciano…?" judging by appearance alone, France must have been gardening (no shirt and no shoes), and looked in surprise at the person on top of him. Clearly he wasn't expecting a visit, or that someone knew he was there, maybe.

Of course, this they were enemies, it could have been also that.

"_Petite Italie_!" France's surprise vanished into a small contented smile, and he patted Italy's head, trying to shift away from the other Nation.

Italy didn't allow him, and instead tried to make himself more comfortable on the other's lap, leaning over to drop two kisses, one on each of the older man's cheeks.

"_Petite Italie_, you know you shouldn't be there" France chastised, but he wasn't really making an effort to push the brown haired Nation away, and his hands sneaked upwards to grab at the Italian's hips, holding him still as the brunette was… wiggling.

Cheeks red in shame, Ludwig felt a vague pity towards the Frenchman; he'd been on the end of such a wiggling himself, and he hadn't really… appreciated it.

Definitely not. Of course he wouldn't –this was Italy, his ally… a male. Nobody should ever react with such wiggling, if it came from–

'_You're overreacting again,'_ he rationalised to himself, trying to focus on what was in front of him instead.

"But… _Francis_…"

Since when could Feliciano speak with such a sultry, low tone? Ludwig shifted forwards, hiding behind a tree, and glared at the two, feeling his insides twitch; he was not sure about what was happening, but the option of a betrayal was almost possible now.

Francis stood up slowly, still having to hold up Feliciano's body as well as his own, and Feliciano wrapped his legs around the taller man's hips, arms wound around his shoulder; the French Nation held the other closer by his hips, but his hands moved gradually lower…

Barely able to stifle a gasp of shock, Ludwig fully hid behind the tree to avoid being seen, cheeks still red; his heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and he felt flames of something curl inside his stomach. When he gathered enough strength to watch again, the scene had not changed yet.

Francis was actually groping Feliciano's ass. Which was _normal_ for the perverted nation, but it was Italy's reaction that Ludwig didn't like.

The Italian simply giggled.

"Francis…" he continued, still with that low, sensual tone that was so not suited for him, and yet at the same time, so _fitting_. "So what? You know that I don't care if we're enemies in the war. It's our people fighting… we've kept our relationship the same friendly one since I was in Austria's house… besides, you know I entered the war only to be at Ludwig's side".

Although his words sent a wave of relief through his body, Germany was still highly tense by Italy's position, and how strangely he was acting if compared to his usual attitude; why was he in France's arms?

The French Nation moved backwards a bit, not taking his eyes off Italy whilst blindly backing towards one of his chairs, sitting down on it; Italy leaned forwards, their chests pressed together, and nuzzled at the other man's frizzled beard affectionately.

Under Germany's eyes, France's hands shifted upwards again, slithering under the other's shirt, eliciting a shiver from Italy that made Germany's blood freeze in his veins.

What was–

Hands rubbing on that amount of creamy skin, France smirked. "You keep… coming to me, _mon petit_," he murmured, voice an octave lower.

Germany shifted and tried to get closer, daring to stop only when he was standing on the borders of the garden, close enough to listen and watch; he felt… betrayed, somehow, even if he didn't know why, and also confused.

"Why don't you simply go to that… brat of your brother for some relief?"

Hands slid to the front of Feliciano's jacket, unbuttoning it.

Tilting his head to the side, Italy rolled his eyes. "He's… he's at brother Antonio's house, now. You know what he feels about Ludwig," he paused and let out a breathy moan when France's fingers brushed against his nipples. "Ahn… b–besides, he doesn't want to give Antonio ideas…"

Rooted to his spot, Germany felt sweat roll down his brow.

This couldn't be happening –this whole thing… it was…

Italy was accepting France's advances, even going so far as to shift closer, and those sounds coming from him… his voice, the moans…

They were causing strange reactions in Germany's own body, and he hissed, stiffening. This was not the moment for… this wasn't… there wasn't a moment to be bothered by something like that! At all–

What was the meaning of this…?

Francis chuckled, leaning forwards and trailing small kisses down Italy's neck; groaning, he tilted his head backwards to let France a better access, his hands gripping the other's shoulders. "Then, why not dear Gilbert…?" was the question in-between kisses.

Yet, it was clear that he was merely asking questions to have a bit of fun at Italy's expenses, as by his flushed cheeks, shivering frame and groans, the Italian was putty to France's expert touches.

"Hnn…" Feliciano moaned in appreciation as Francis nibbled his ear. "He's Ludwig's brother, Francis… ah, yes, _there_… a–and, I trust _you_".

This time France laughed quite loudly, but the sound was rich and sensual, not a silly laugh, and leaned forwards, open lips, to lick at Italy's curl.

Germany could see Italy's reaction to that clearly –his whole body arched up, fingers clenching on France's shoulders, lips parting to let out a needy, desperate moan.

"F–Francis, don't… _nnnn_… don't tease me… p–please… ah…"

Flushed hard, pressing down against France…

"It's bad enough that… ah… Ludwig pulls at it every day…"

Germany's flush returned full force. Was Italy… actually… _sexually_ aroused by having that curl… pulled?

If it was true, then… then…

Cheeks already flushed _**burned**_ in shame.

"Why don't you just _tell_ him what it does to you, then? I am sure this would give you a chance with him, being more direct. Even God knows how thick–headed Ludwig is…" each word of France was punctuated by a small pull at Feliciano's curl with teeth and tongue and lips, that made the Italian fall on the other's chest, flushed and panting and rendered unable to speak.

"M–more…" he pleaded. "Stop b–babbling… _nnng_…"

"You didn't answer, _Petit_ Feli" Francis chuckled. "Wouldn't it be… _easier_" long torturous lick "to finally _tell_ Ludwig?" another lick "wouldn't it be _better_ to finally _tell_ him?" a soft bite to his neck "to be able to do _this_ with the person you care for…?"

Feliciano's flushed face looked up, the distance between his and Francis' face barely an inch, and scowled, cheeks the reddest Germany had ever seen.

"D–don't forget… we're not going all the way" he murmured instead of replying.

France growled at this, "you're always saving yourself for your… _amour_… your _love_… and yet you don't want to tell Germany that you l–"

"_I won't tell Ludwig!_" Feliciano hissed, a bit angrily. "It's not… it wouldn't… I am _not worth_ of him. I'm weak and clumsy and useless and I hate fighting and… It's better this way. And what the _hell_ is up with you being unusually babbly, aren't you happy you get some–"

His words were drowned out by Francis' lips that descended on his.

Germany couldn't look away; first Italy's serious face, the strength of his words, believing in what he was saying, and then– they were kissing, getting down to business…

And he knew he should have left –running away, leaving them behind, not looking anymore…

He couldn't.

Relief –he was relieved, because Feliciano wasn't betraying the Axis by selling information; he hadn't betrayed Ludwig, and on the opposite, he'd stated that he…

And yet, why was he feeling such a strong, unknown twist deep in his stomach?

He didn't like seeing Italy in the arms of France. Accepting his advances, sharing something this intimate with the other man… needy and pliant in his arms…

And then, Italy's words. They had shocked him to the core. Italy was… Italy actually…

Germany couldn't understand. After the failure that Valentine Day had been, Italy had explained him that his feelings were those of a close friend, nothing more –that he was once again reading far too deeply into things…

He'd been mortified. He'd avoided speaking about it afterwards, ashamed of himself, of his actions, of having jumped straight into things without thinking them through…

Because his feelings were wrong, they shouldn't exist –they were not true, he'd just deluded himself into thinking too much about things… housewife Italy wasn't something he really wanted, deep down.

Denying ever having had similar thoughts,_ knowing he never had such thoughts_…

And now…

"_Ahnn_…"

Looking back up, shaking away the confusing thoughts, Ludwig was presented with a sight he would have preferred to go without.

Feliciano was now completely naked, and he was actually turned in his direction, still on France's lap, legs spread wide, back pressed against Francis' front, face twisted in pleasure, cheeks flushed, back arching as skilful fingers stroked his length, as lips pulled at his traitorous curl, as Francis groped and brushed and licked at all the skin he could reach–

"L–Ludwig~"

Feliciano closed his eyes and came, shuddering, body glistening with sweat, flushed and wanton and spread, all of it open to Germany's probing gaze, who was watching a familiar body in an unfamiliar situation, and was shaken by the sight.

Italy had called out _his_ name.

'_Mein Gott'_ Germany's eyes were glued on Feliciano's now spent frame.

Something inside him –and something down south– stirred accordingly to the sight, and he shifted on the spot, unable to take reign of his chaotic thoughts.

He couldn't understand.

Everything was spinning, conclusions, thoughts, worry, shock–

In the meanwhile Francis, who had turned Italy around again and was kissing him, brushed his fingers on the spent member, apparently wanting to coax it back to life.

Italy was all too eager to continue as he groaned and started to touch and brush his own fingers all over Francis' naked chest.

"You know I don't mind you calling out his name, but you came far too easily, _Petite Italie_" France grumbled, licking some of the white, sticky substance from his fingers. "You've been coming here twice a week now, he's really testing your endurance, is he… but don't worry… you can pretend I'm him… we can continue as much as you wish…"

His only reply was Feliciano's lips downing on his again.

Germany ran.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** edited chapter is longer chapter. Did you like it?

_Mein Gott (German)_ – My god.

_Mon petit (French)_ – my little (endearing).

_Amour (French) _– Love

_Petite Italie (French)_ – Little Italy


	3. Armistice of Blood

**SOY:** there it is, chapter two. I'm sorry for the lack of updates lately, I've been under exams… anyway, I'll be working more now! Hope you like this! ^^

_This fanfic is dedicated to Nacchan. She's not into Hetalia anymore, but this is still for her, because she's one of my motivators, and I love her so._

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: R.

**Chapter Warnings:** angst, brother face off, war.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Chapter 02 – Armistice of blood**

Italy groaned in pain, feeling another headache bubbling to life.

He had been having bouts of headache and other physical aches in the last few months, usually without warnings, twinges that had nothing to do with Germany's intensive abuse of his curl (abuse that had somewhat ceased to exist in the last few weeks, strange as it was) or with his equally intensive training, and definitely it had nothing to do with the sessions of relieving tension he had with brother France –not that he'd had any chance to meet up with him lately, nor reason to, either.

The sudden headaches had been growing more insistent lately, so Italy had ended up taking an aspirin whenever he felt one approaching, and that also helped with the other aches.

Something was wrong, but Italy had been good at pretending the opposite; being at Germany's side, even if only to train… it was ok. Even if he hadn't had a chance to go back home in so long…

Of course, together with the growing pains, Italy now had another problem –Germany was avoiding him.

It wasn't just a lack of contact (which would be enough to make Italy unhappy, of course), but also a complete lack of reactions and all in all, Germany barely looked at him, ordering him around with that strange, chocked voice he'd come to be familiar with as of late.

It hurt –to be ignored like that, pushed away roughly, avoided and evaded, especially considering the feelings the Italian harboured towards his fellow Nation… but of course, Germany didn't know that.

It was better if he didn't know, though –Italy was sure about his own determination, but the German, so aloof and strong and matter–of–fact, had never showed any indication that he could be returning his feelings; not just that, but what he'd said to France in their last meeting had been true.

Italy did not deserve Germany's love –being an artist, refusing war and battle, he was the opposite of what the blond Nation needed. They could be friends, of course, but nothing more. It was bad enough that the German had to come and save his poor, pathetic ally whenever he fought…

No. Germany wouldn't need another problem, knowing of how Italy felt for him.

Or how Italy's body trembled with pain at night, and how only Germany's presence, strong and reassuring, was the only way he could relax and finally sleep, feeling protected by slipping into the other's bed to curl at his side.

Not to mention that, since Germany had been snappish lately, burying himself in documents and paperwork, maybe he was hurting and aching as well. The war wasn't easy on either of them, just like with Japan.

Still, as no detailed information regarding real battles had ever reached them (other than boring short messages about winning or losing), Italy wasn't sure about what was exactly happening, but he was positive they would get warned if things spun out of control.

Most of their days consisted of training the troops near Ludwig's house, and they had barely crossed borders (except for Feliciano's usual trips to Francis), and Italy had not seen his brother in at least a month, if not more.

With everything piling up, and the worry that nagged at Italy's brain despite how he pushed it away, he had no intentions to make things even more tense and talk honestly to Germany. If he kept his usual attitude, everything would remain the same, and he would be able to wait for a bit more.

Just a bit more –after the war, maybe, things would be different…

Massaging his forehead, Italy gulped down another aspirin with some water.

Germany had sent a letter to his boss, requesting detailed information about the latest battles and how the war was going –and if they still needed to train these young humans– but no reply had arrived, and the answers when Germany had called him on the phone had been both vague and hesitating, demanding both of them to stay put and not move from the house.

This meant Germany had turned even more standoffish, especially with his avoiding Italy as much as he could, and Italy was truly fed off with everything; stressed and fidgety, he truly wanted out.

He missed Romano; he even missed France (which was probably worse). And of course, he missed hugging Germany. He couldn't deal with this new side of him, and he truly didn't deserve the cold shoulder.

He might suck at war, but he was good at other things.

Was none of them enough of importance to Germany?

"Ve~"

Germany wasn't even there, so he couldn't try to get answers and demand the blond Nation to explain why he was keeping distances –he'd gone to Austria's house, claiming he needed to speak with his friend, and then he'd leave for the city, to talk with his boss.

It would take him at least a day or two, and Italy had been left behind to his boredom.

Feliciano felt cheated.

"I–if Ludwig doesn't want me, I'll go back to brother, then!"

Standing up and almost swaying because of a sudden pain flaring up in his knee, Italy mustered a determined expression. If Germany ignored him, he would ignore his orders and just go see his brother.

He knew Romano would throw up a fit and probably yell at him, insulting Germany, but this way, Italy felt a bit vindictive. And he missed his older brother a lot~

With strong determination backing him up, Feliciano left Ludwig's house (locking the door and leaving enough food for the blond man's dogs not to die) and moved towards Italian borders.

Vaguely unsure with each step he took away from the mansion, Italy avoided going close to the towns and cities on the way down, simply enjoying a slow pace through the forest. The satisfaction of knowing he was doing what Germany didn't want him to chased away all his guilt.

His happy smile vanished once he finally crossed his borders.

Sudden, instantaneous, the ache reached through his body, making him kneel over.

Everything looked worn down.

Staring around him in shock, Italy couldn't but stumble through the first few towns, eyes wide, feeling out with his inner senses, trying to understand the cause of his pain, unable to understand the full entity of what he was seeing; wherever he looked at, there was only devastation. The fields were burnt, drained or dry, dead –abandoned. The towns were either emptied of humans, or desolate, sad… the few remaining villagers hid away when they noticed his uniform.

What…

Some of his people yelled viciously at him –each spiteful word like a stab through his heart, words of hatred and disgust as painful as real wounds. Some tried to attack him, and he had to run away, tears making his eyes itch; some chased him down, proudly stating to be Partisans.

He could feel it –the hatred towards German soldiers running deep among them.

It hurt.

With every step deeper into his own territories, Feliciano felt his reassurance waver, until it disappeared completely; the pain and aches that had hit him before were now back with vengeance, throbbing through him with no release, no time to breathe–

The deeper he went, the deeper it hurt.

Was this… was this his Italy?

What was happening?

His people… why were they hurting? His civilians, not just his soldiers. Why were they crying? Why were they yelling with such hatred? Germany soldiers should be protecting them, right? Weren't they _happy_ about that?

Shivers racking through his body, Italy closed his eyes. Germany was protecting his children, right? He had to –he had promised. German soldiers were surely fighting for Italy, right?

Where were the smiles that had surrounded him during the first months of the war? The smiles Feliciano had wanted to take care of, the smiles of his people that he wanted to protect, no matter if he was weak and stupid and slow, the smiles he cherished, the smiles that promised him a peaceful future…

His children. The reason he was fighting, despite his fear and hatred for the war, because he wanted to give them peace, and a future where they could be happy and free and…

Then why was it _painful_? Why were they crying, and _hating_ him and yelling?

Italy had sided with Germany for selfish, personal purposes, whilst his boss had allied with Germany's because of political views, yet Italy had always believed in Germany –the stronger man would help him, protect his children, and shield them from war… because Germany was Germany, and Italy loved him, _trusted_ him.

Why did the air smell of defeat, or tiredness, hatred, pain –loss?

When had things gone this wrong?

He'd _trusted_ Germany.

All he'd owned, Italy had given it to Germany. His love, his everything. To make him proud. Both as Feliciano and as the Italian Nation, he'd given him everything he was.

Italy was weak, yes –war scared him, because he had never wanted to take part in one; war meant pain and death, and Italy's artistic mind couldn't understand what good there could be in that… but he'd joined Germany, trained even despite his lack of qualities that were valuable during a war…

He'd given his trust and heart to Germany.

Had it been a mistake?

Feliciano ran.

With pain rattling through his body, the northern part of Italy ran through the forests and towns, focused on reaching his boss' office as soon as possible; he would explain –he would tell him what was going on, because he couldn't understand… how to _stop_ this, how to–

Abruptly, Italy stopped, tripping on his weak feet and almost collapsing on the road.

In front of him, right in the outskirts of his main city, a familiar figure was waiting, standing still and silent.

They were brothers –part of the same country. Of course, Romano had felt him coming. He'd been waiting for him…

Italy felt his heart stop.

Romano… his brother was naught but a bare resemblance to how he'd been before. Tired, worn out, so thin –he hadn't been eating well, pale, but the scowl still in place, eyes darkened up in pain… the same pain that was eating Italy's body from inside out.

"L–Lovino…?" his voice was so frail, so hesitant –Italy felt almost ashamed.

Romano's eyes narrowed in disgust. He was glaring at him, but with deeper emotions, darker, a different kind of anger. Of hatred. Not entirely directed at him, yet–

"Where have you _been_ all this time?" Lovino was hissing, and somehow it was louder than what could have been if he'd yelled instead. "With our people hurting… aching for food, for help that wasn't there… with our cities being destroyed… crumbling… _where were you_?"

Disoriented, as if he'd been slapped, Italy tried to make his brain work. It was hard, with his body throbbing in pain. Thinking felt sluggish.

"Lovino… what… what's happening here?"

Under the glare of his brother, he felt suddenly nothing more than a little child; as if he'd been playing a game that had quickly turned too dangerous, too deep to be a game anymore.

Guilt spread quickly through him, just as painful as the throbbing ache.

Had he left his brother alone to deal with all of this pain…?

"Lovi, are you sick?"

Passing one hand through dirty, unruly hair, Romano took a shaky sigh. "Feliciano… you… have you… have you an idea of what's been happening here? Did you have time to ever look at yourself in a mirror?" his voice took a lower, darker tone. "You're no better than me. How come you… how could you not _notice,_ _damn it_!"

Hands clenched into fists –anger resurfacing again.

Feliciano backed away, looking down at his own hands with wide eyes. No, of course not –he'd broken Ludwig's mirror months before… they hadn't needed another one. He was training with Ludwig all the time, and training the others, and worrying because the German Nation was avoiding him, and it was probably normal to lose a bit of weight, a bit of strength if you had constant headaches and sickness and–

"I… I was with…"

"_Dannazione! Merda!_ You were with that bastard! He _tricked_ you! So you wouldn't _know_, wouldn't _realise_! He's hurting _us_!" Romano stepped forwards, grabbing his brother by his shoulders and keeping him still. "You were blinded by your… _care_ for the bastard and you cannot see the truth of his actions –he's hurting our people! He's hurting _his own fucking people_!"

Feliciano thrashed in Lovino's arms.

"_No_! _È una bugia_! Ludwig wouldn't purposefully hurt his people! This must be… must be…"

The pain took his breath away.

"Feli" Romano closed his eyes, pained. "You were not here. You didn't see war raging through Italy. You didn't see bombs fall in my poor Napoli. You didn't see the attacks on our Rome… you didn't see how your Venezia is doing… you did not see the results of a war where _your Germany wasn't there to protect us_!"

Freeing himself from the other's grip, Feliciano tried to back away again.

"B–but… we're training our soldiers! Germany's boss is–"

"Germany's boss _doesn't_ care, damnit!" Lovino punched a nearby tree, hands shaking. "I've seen the refugees! I've seen people running away from there! They're running out of pain! _Betrayal_!"

"If… if it's true, then… I need… I need to go tell Ludwig! He surely doesn't know… he wouldn't allow us to… he'll fix everything!" Feliciano, eyes wide, pained and confused, tried once more to step away from his brother, but Lovino pressed his back against the tree, shaking his head. "No… I cannot allow you to go back there… Feliciano, it's the _end_. Mussolini has been deposed. We're signing an armistice with the Allied Powers".

Cold seeped through Italia's body at those words.

No.

_No!_

_**No**__!_

"We can't!" franticly, Feliciano tried to get free from his brother's arms, but uselessly, as despite his thinness and weakness, Lovino was holding onto him with all of his energy. "He'll think I betrayed him! He will be left alone! I can't! I have to go back to Germany! I don't agree with the armistice!"

Romano gritted his teeth. He knew Italy well, not just because they were brothers, but because they were supposed to be one. And Italy would never turn his back on someone he cared so deeply for…

Someone whom he gave all his trust.

Tied by trust, but not just that. Tied by… by…

Eyes narrowed in anger, Romano steeled his resolve.

Why couldn't he understand that? He should take care of himself –of his own brother, damn it! Not about that bastard German! Why deny the truth so much? Why…

"Feli… look at me! Look at _you_! This is breaking _us_ apart… we can't keep on fighting… and we were on the wrong side, too… it's been hurting _us_. Hurting _our_ people! Our _children_, damnit! There's no money for food or repairs, soldiers are dying… didn't you hear the news? It's falling all around us as we speak! We can't be on that end! It'll be a massacre!"

Feliciano stilled. His hands started trembling, and under Lovino's grip, his whole body quickly turned into a shivering mass.

"… but… b–but I do love you too! And my people… we are not this poor… there should be reinforcements and everything we need! His boss promised… he–"

It was Romano's turn to freeze. Slowly, he took a long, shaky breath.

"Feli… is Ludwig's boss keeping you informed? He is telling you that we're losing… right?"

Italy felt strangely light headed. Losing? They were losing? Why didn't… why didn't the Führer tell him? Germany always stated how his boss was sure of their victory… even if he wasn't passing much info to them, he was still fighting for his nation. For Germany. So he would tell his _Nation_ if they were…

"We… we can't be losing… it is not true…"

Lovino's grip on his shoulders relaxed slightly, as the two brothers looked into each other's eyes. Feliciano felt panic slowly build inside his chest, bubbling upwards. No.

"No…" he whispered, slipping on the ground, which smelled of gunpowder and blood.

"Feliciano, the Allied Powers were let in Italy's coasts. Mafia helped them come in".

Feliciano's nails clawed at the ground.

"We've lost two more important battles, too" Lovino continued, stating numbers on numbers of deaths and wounded soldiers with emotionless voice.

Feliciano chocked back a devastated yell.

"Germany's boss is sending thousand of people in concentration camps all over the country… they're dying here of starvation and cold and…"

"No!" Feliciano looked up, and his eyes were filled with tears and shock. "Germany's boss wouldn't hurt people like this! He's our ally! He…"

Lovino allowed his body to fall on the ground, and hugged his sobbing brother close. "Feli… I'm sorry… damnit, I'm sorry…"

This was his fucking _brother_. This was his cheerful, light hearted brother who was hurting, and he couldn't do anything because he was _hurting_ too. Feliciano had been far too believing, far too trustful, but the fault wasn't completely his… They were weak and had been cheated, and nothing remained now. No one would trust them, and they were of no use.

They had signed something less than an armistice, something more than a surrender.

They had signed themselves as traitors, as betrayers –switching sides at what was clearly the end of the war –when the Allies would surely win… they had just tried to protect their people, but thus making themselves unworthy of trust.

Italy had taken a step that would probably bring forth more pain and more losses, and all in all, Romano knew this had been the only option so far. Mussolini had been wrong since the start. Germany's boss, too was wrong –but in the end, Lovino and Feliciano, South and North, had been of no use.

Things would only get worse for them, and even worse for Ludwig –for _Germany_.

"I have to tell Ludwig! He'll fix everything! He'll stop his boss!" Feliciano pulled out of Lovino's arms, but once again his brother grabbed him and held him close. "Let me go! he needs to know! I can't betray him, Lovino! He's my friend! He's my _first_ friend! I'm his _first_–"

"Feliciano" Lovino's soft tone stopped him mid–rant. "His boss doesn't love his nation. His boss only loves _power_. He has to be stopped, but… Ludwig can't stop him. Don't you see? He kept you away from where you could know the truth. He kept information to himself. Germany has no power to stop him anymore –only the Allied Powers can do that, now".

"But what will Ludwig think! He'll think I betrayed him! I have to go!"

"I can't let you do this, Feli" Lovino growled. "I won't let them hurt you again. I don't…" _'I don't care if Ludwig will hate you forever. As long as you're safe. As long as i can still have you at my side__'_.

He didn't say that, though, despite it being true. Italy needed Germany's love. Or care. Or friendship –or forgiveness. But Romano had taken upon himself to sacrifice all of that for the same of remaining alive.

It took a simple punch to make his younger brother pass out –he was far weaker than he realised, especially now that all the pain of his territory and children rushed to him at once, and Lovino clutched at the fainted body, fighting back tears of rage.

Oh, how he hated to be this small and weak.

'_That's the only way out…I'm sorry, Feli'._

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** also edited, also longer.

_Dannazione (Italian)_ – Damn it

_Merda (Italian)_ – Shit

_È una bugia! (Italian_) – It's a lie!


	4. Interlude: The dream of North Italy

**SOY:** this new chapter is an interlude of sorts, to offer some sort of background on certain things. I hope you will enjoy this chapter, and thank you for the kind reviews and support you offered for this fic so far!

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: R–ish.

**Warnings:** Shounen–ai. Maybe yaoi. A bit dark. Angst.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Interlude – The dream of North Italy**

Once, when he was really, really young, when he was still living with his grandfather, Feliciano had a dream.

It involved pretty landscapes and crayons, and so many sheets of paper, all white and enormous, where he could draw on.

Around him, everything was beautiful, almost shining, and the world looked bright. The grass was lush and smooth under his fingers, flowers blossoming everywhere…

The sky above… the sky had looked impossibly blue, breathtaking, and so real–

Italy had grabbed one of his crayons, his favourite blue, placing it down on a big white sheet, and he'd started colouring.

The sky had stretched far through his paper, and still looking up, the blue had begged him to continue, for it was not enough –and Italy moved to the next sheet, then to the next…

So much sky everywhere, so much blue.

Waking up, little Feliciano (although he had not been called that way, back then) had felt a strange sort of calm humming inside him, a pleasure that curled around his heart, and it had lasted for the entire day; cheerfully running to his grandpa, he'd recounted his dream with as many colourful words as he knew –and Roma had smiled kindly at him.

Italy didn't remember much of that smile, but he did remember what Roma had said then.

Something about… 'freedom'.

"_Fwee… dom?" _stumbling upon an unknown word, little Italy had frowned.

"_Yes –freedom. It means… it means to be able to have all the crayons in the world, all the biggest white canvas –to pain everything you want to, for as long as you wish… and you're never tired of drawing, and you're always happy… and when others see your drawings, they will be happy, too. No need to fight, or be sad…"_

Grandpa Roma had smiled warmly at him, and Italy had entirely missed the pained glint deep in those brown eyes, and instead he'd focused on what he'd said.

He'd liked that word… freedom.

Back then, Italy hadn't needed that word. He was fine under his grandfather's care. He missed his brother, but Roma had promised they would surely meet, when they were both ready, and when they had grown with different experiences.

Besides, grandpa had brought him around, showing him many things to draw, making him happy, coddling him… what use was for 'freedom' if he was already happy?

"_Feliciano, nurture this love for art, this love for literature… grow up without hating anyone, grow up without desire to hurt… I only wish what's best for you, and there's nothing better than being free… fight for your freedom, gain it with your own hands, and there will be nothing worthier in your entire life"._

"_Ve~!"_

Few weeks after that, Roman Empire had been taken into a long, painful war, and Italy had assisted, pained, frightened, without understanding the reasons why his grandfather was forced to fight.

Quickly, painfully, Roma had been pulled apart, destroyed, ripped through, and his territories has been split.

Scars had appeared on his chest, back, arms –skin marred, bloody, Roma had weakened day after day, until in the end, with Italy clinging at his hand…

It had been the first time Italy had realised the meaning of 'war'.

And it hurt. War had taken away the person he'd loved the most in the world –the only person he knew enough, the only person who had taken care of him, helping him discover art and literature and poetry–

The person who would have had so much more to teach, and that now would never…

As little as he was, Italy had been unable to cope, and had retreated deeply inside, promising to himself that he would never –ever– fight a way.

Wars would bring nothing but pain –they were not worth it. Italy couldn't hate, his heart was too full with colours and love to be able to –but if given the possibility, he would have hated war.

Around him, the world changed.

People fought –he hid away. Nations were born, grew and fell, and Italy closed himself into his drawings, creating a new piece of art for each life that was lost. If there could be enough beauty in the world, maybe, just maybe, there wouldn't be need of hatred.

Wars raged, Italy's territories caught the interest of others, and he cried and hid away, scared above any reason, thought scrambling away, until only fright and pain were left.

Whilst not afraid of being hurt –was there any pain stronger than that of losing a loved person? If there was, Italy didn't know it– he didn't want those around him to be in pain. His precious people, the ones he met, played with, laughed with… no, he couldn't lose someone else.

Holy Roman Empire following him around, scary and determinate… Austria, fighting for his territories against brother France…

Italy hid away, trying to forget, trying to not cry anymore. Maybe if he looked small enough, if he looked stupid enough, and useless and weak–

Maybe they would ignore him.

With his attempts at ignoring war, inability to learn of it, he _was_ weak. Forget notions of war, forget notions… it was easier to be cheerful, deny any problem, deny the truth…

'_Ignore your problems, they'll go away…'_

It was wrong, but he didn't want to learn anything else.

Hiding away, hiding so deep inside –that Italy lost himself; the smile became true, his eyes sparkled uselessly. It didn't stop others from wanting him, but it shielded his heart away, so everything was good again.

Living with Switzerland, protected but forced to give up on drawing–

Living with Austria, forced to be a maid, giving up his food, losing his culture, forced to work and not draw when he wanted to–

Being a servant taught Italy a lot of things; people were nice, dressing him in beautiful, fluffy clothes, feeding him, acting as if he were a girl… Roderich wasn't evil, just strict. He allowed him to play, sometimes, and draw… things could work out.

Then, there was Holy Roman Empire again, who was also scary and yet intrigued Italy a bit… he was funny, making strange faces but then acting nicely with him, offering him food and company, and…

He could get used to that. He knew it, but…

Holding a deck brush, cleaning the house, rubbing dirt and dust away –helping sister Hungary…

This was not freedom, even if it wasn't so bad.

"_It means to be able to have all the crayons in the world, all the biggest white canvas –to pain everything you want to, for as long as you wish…_"

This wasn't freedom.

Unable to leave Austria's borders. Unable to eat pasta and foods that were not of Roderich's style… unable to draw.

Italy ached for freedom, but was also afraid. Being free would mean fight to keep that dream. Fight to be able to never kneel in front of someone…

Was it worth it?

He didn't want to fight.

"_Freedom?" _Hungary had looked at him with a small, warm smile, holding him on her lap and petting him with love. _"Freedom is to be able to care for yourself without someone doing it for you… not to serve under someone anymore… to dance and sing and laugh without having to ask for permission, and walk around everywhere in the world…"_

Hungary had fought her wars, Italy learned. She had fought hard, standing tall and proud, and knew of freedom. She found it hard to stay as a servant, but she also knew it was temporary and would fight once more, when the time demanded it.

Italy knew he couldn't be like her, but…

Brother France, although an unpleasant guest on Austria's part, sometimes popped around. He, too, had words of wisdom to share. _"You have to be willing to compromise, sometimes, for your dreams to come true"._

Italy's compromise had been to not dream anymore.

This way, he would be happy with what he had, and he would renounce to freedom. In exchange, he would not be hurt anymore.

Then Holy Roman Empire left and went away, far away, to fight.

"_It is to be strong. To become like Roman Empire_!" his eyes had brightened up in respect when mentioning Italy's grandpa. _"We'll be strong together, right Italia?"_

No. No, they wouldn't.

They would fall hard and it would hurt. And Italy couldn't stand that. He couldn't follow him.

If Italy was important enough, maybe Holy Roman wouldn't go… maybe if he refused, if he could stop him, then…

But Holy Roman left, taking part of Italy's heart with him, showing him what a first love was, and how painful separating from someone was.

He'd promised to be strong for Holy Roman, and wait for him. He was determined in at least keeping this promise.

…–…–…–…

"_I want independence"._

Feliciano had a hard time processing the meaning of his brother's words. It was as if his ears were covered by a veil.

Lovino, his older sibling, his southern part, was very different from him. He'd lived with Antonio in Spain for a long while, whilst he'd been living in Roderich's house, and they had only seen each other a few times before. Unable to stand still, fingers twitching, he barely met Feliciano's eyes when talking.

Eyes that he remembered as being like his own were now green, lit with a different light that made Lovino look like a stranger. Not his brother, yet family all the same.

"_W–what?"_ he had asked, blinking in surprise. _"B–but brother Lovino~"_

Italy Romano had grunted. He had difficulties in accepting Italy as his sibling, as the other part of himself, as an equal. _"I won't stay under Antonio's control any longer"_ he had added hissing in displeasure.

Italy Veneziano was still trying to come to terms with his small yet sudden growth spurt, that had transformed his body in that of a teen (not a baby anymore, yet rubicund enough that people still considered him a girl), and Romano's words confused him greatly.

Why would his other part seek freedom? Didn't he know of the pain it would bring?

Maybe Romano didn't consider him like family, but Italy _did_. He wanted them to be _closer_. To love each other, to be taken care of and take care in exchange. A bond deeper than that with Brother Spain or even Brother France. Blood family.

They had not been close before, but he really wanted that closeness now. Yet… if Romano really tried seceding from Spain's control, then…

He would lose him, too, like he'd lost Holy Roman, who was still battling somewhere… like he'd lost his… _their_ grandpa.

"_Why!"_ he'd grabbed on Romano's hand, staring up at him with big, teary eyes. _"It'll only bring pain! Freedom is not–"_

"_You don't want to be weak all your life, right? You'd shame our family!"_ Lovino had continued, grimacing in disgust. _"You might have been grandpa's favourite but you're weaker than I am, if you think it's good to stay the way you are. We are… we are descendants of Roman Empire. Even if weak… even if weak…"_ Lovino had gritted his teeth, tears pooling into his eyes for reasons Feliciano couldn't grasp _"we have to respect our past"._

Freezing, Italy had stared at his brother. Could they be any different? He truly couldn't–

Grandpa Roma's words suddenly washed back through him. Roma had fought hard for them. Yes, he had been too big and had fallen hard under the weight of too much pain and responsibilities, but he had never ceased to love every _second_ of it. Even in his last moments he'd been smiling. Pained smiles, with an edge of sadness, but there had been no regret in his eyes.

He'd been _free_, not caged. He'd moved everywhere, met so many people, he'd fought and had fun, and had explained his grandchildren how to be free in their own way.

A suspicion flashed through Italy's mind then, overriding his denial –maybe he'd been wrong. If he could grow strong… just a bit… gain freedom… become his own nation… not too big, but… strong enough to stand on his own…

Then maybe… maybe he wouldn't need others to fight to protect him. If he could be strong enough to be on his own, stopping others from fighting over him, from deciding things in his place, and be the one to choose instead…

Yet, he wasn't sure about it. Would Romano understand his pain? He'd always been mutinous, rebelling and ignoring Spain even when the older Nation had tried to be nice, so of course he wouldn't understand Italy's hesitation.

His southern part, Italy realised this with a wince, was stronger than he was; older, with more self–esteem, with a stronger will. He'd not seen what his northern part had, which made Italy inwardly glad (_his grandfather's hand growing lax into little Italy's grip, eyes closing forever…_), but Italy hadn't seen what Romano had, and couldn't imagine anything of how his life could have been, either.

A life in the south, with Spain, and enormous fields of tomatoes, and the ability to run everywhere… that was what Italy thought –but it could be different, for all he knew.

And still…

It wasn't bad to want to unfold a dream.

"_Feli, you have to grow a backbone, damnit"_ Romano had wanted to grab his sibling by the shoulders and shake him hard, but he had refrained. They were brothers, but barely knew each other.

And yet, Lovino still held some sort of deep care for that young person in front of him. His brother. Despite all of his huffing and wailing, Feliciano was still _family_, wasn't it?

Italy was a pacifist. His people, because he had people, of course… wanted to fight. Wanted to grow into a nation, wanted freedom from Austria, and France, and… but _he_ was so scared. He was holding his people down with his actions. His inability to fight, his hatred for war.

Lovino could see this, and wanted to help, but at the same time, didn't want to.

After all, Feliciano was the one who was loved the most. The one who had everything. Art, trades, poets… Lovino had nothing. And yet…

Italy also was the one who had been closer to Grandpa Rome. The one who had seen the pain. Romano hadn't been there, he'd been away, safe.

Maybe their grandpa had preferred his younger brother to him, but living with Spain had taught Romano that maybe being away had been better –that maybe there were reasons for grandpa's predilection towards his younger sibling.

And deep down, Lovino cared for his brother _enough_ to want him to grow stronger.

"_Feli… I wanted to stay in Antonio's house forever"._ It was hard to admit this aloud, but he owed his brother something. _"It is easy to live there. He protects me. Even from Sadiq. He feeds me. And I don't stay because of this!"_ he'd hastily added, flushing_. "B–but, even if he cares for me… I feel that I will never be truly happy until I can show him I can be strong by myself. That he doesn't need to be afraid for my health all the time"._

Feliciano had turned to look at him. Lovino's face was flushed, but his eyes were serious, for once.

"_It's because of my pride. I want to be strong enough so… s–so idiot Antonio will think of me as an equal, and not as a bother! T–that's it!"_

Feliciano had felt tears prickle his eyes. Holy Roman was so far from him, fighting, not back yet… but he was surely growing, or at least he was doing all he could to grow. Italy didn't want to grow as strong as the Roman Empire had been, he wanted to draw, to paint, to laugh and smile and eat pasta… but he wanted to be free, too.

Free to eat pasta whenever he wanted. Free to speak of his ideas without having others restrain him. Free to smile and have his own house, full of paintings, and meet new friends. Free so that his people would not feel _oppressed_.

"_Is war the only way out?"_ he had murmured. He really didn't want war. Despised it for what it did to nations. And yet… and yet…

Lovino had stared at him as if he'd grown twice as tall. _"Of course, you dunce! You fight for what you wish for! T–that's what stupid Antonio always tells me"_ had been his barked reply. _"It's not nice but if you don't grow up a backbone, you'll never be free either!"_

Feliciano had been _so_ close to tears then.

And yet, he had strengthened his resolve, for once. Maybe, if he were to fight now, maybe then… maybe then… he could convince his people they could be happy without fighting. They could be happy by being in peace…

Slowly, he'd straightened up, eyes gaining a glint that had not been there in so long.

"_Let's form a unified Italia"_ he had stated, looking at his brother and startling him out of his muttering obscenities against an idiotic Spain. _"Let's get strong together, fratello!"_

Lovino hadn't liked the idea_. "I don't wanna do that, you idiot!"_ he had growled, looking around and backing away from his younger brother.

He'd only wanted to help Italy grow a bit on his own. Not put ideas in his head that they could ever be buddy brothers. But by then, Italy was finally convinced of his idea. With his brother together with him, it would be family. It would be home.

It would give a meaning to this whole thing –if there was going to be a nation, it was going to be the both of them. Together.

They could do it as one… and he needed his brother, in order to get strong. He needed his brother, because having your own house was lonely. And Holy Roman was still fighting and maybe he would lose, and then it would be Italy offering him a house instead.

And Feliciano wanted a family the most. The family he'd lost when his grandpa had died. Grow closer to that brother who was stronger and better than him and had already taught him something.

'_So that… so that when Holy Roman comes back, I won't be weak anymore… I won't need protection!'_

Determination surging from somewhere inside him, Feliciano had no troubles in calling forth a strength he hadn't known he had; with every mean necessary, aiding his generals, his counts, and the important Italians that wanted independence, he'd moved forwards.

First came France –charming his way into the Frenchman's heart, since he'd always had a soft spot for Italy, had been easy– and when he couldn't help, he'd moved further away…

The territories of what would become Italy had been clear in his mind, knowing exactly what he wanted…

For once, Italy was going to try his best.

And that was why he was standing in front of Austria's house, reminiscing, after many years of battling his way out, of forming his confines, of pain and sacrifices, of watching his children die over and over for their growing nation.

So many decades that passed so quickly… he'd even managed to get his brother to join him, in the end, and that had been the major victory this far.

They were brothers, they were together, and that was it.

And now, Italy was going to get what he'd wanted the most ever since he declared his independence.

Venezia.

His beautiful Venezia, with its bridges, its beautiful scenery, the houses, Piazza San Marco, and the majestic statue of a Lion with the opened book of Pax…

The streets in which he had walked when young, drawing and admiring and having fun, where Holy Roman Empire had chased him around –so scary back then!– where his heart still resided…

Venezia was important to him. _It belonged to him._

If there was something Feliciano wanted back, it was Venezia.

Asking Francis for help had amounted to nothing, as in the end Roderich had still retained the city. Feliciano had nothing against Roderich, but he wanted Venezia.

'_Holy Roman Empire…'_

"… Ita?"

Feliciano gasped, startled out of his thoughts by a tall, straightforward German who had stopped right in front of him.

Bright crimson eyes stared down at him in partial amusement and partial shock, and he felt a smile blossom on his face even though he tried to remain serious.

He'd missed him a lot in the last few years, and there he was, standing tall and proud, still the same, still strong… still Prussia.

"Gilbert!" he yelled, happy to see the other nation. He was the one he'd been waiting for so long, at the borders of Austria, but he knew it was worth the waiting.

The older nation stared hard at him, and Feliciano waved his arms around, feeling suddenly self–conscious.

He had grown to hit puberty, and with that, his voice and built had also changed, finally suiting his real gender.

Part of him actually missed the beautiful dresses and skirts, and wasn't ashamed of thinking such; but Austria had realised _he_ was not a _she_, and had finally stopped making him wear girly clothes, even though Hungary had been disappointed.

Prussia had only ever seen him in his female, puffy clothes at Austria's house, and afterwards, he'd been so focused on gaining independence that Austria and Hungary were still the only ones that knew so far (you couldn't count Spain and France, they had known since the start).

The Prussian's surprise quickly vanished and the older Nation suddenly hugged Italy close with one arm, ruffling his hair and then moving back to offer an appreciative stare.

"Well, isn't that a surprise!" he stated, blinking and patting Italy on the shoulder. "I thought you were… well, everybody thought you were…" he let out an amused laugh. "Anyway, it doesn't quite matter, does it? You look amazing. Not as much as me, of course, but that's ok!"

"Ve~" Italy smiled. Prussia was still the same. They had been friends in the past, and wars had brought them further away from each other, but it was still ok, in the end. Certain things didn't change. "Sorry I had you come here with not enough warning~"

"Don't worry, cute Ita, I'm above those problems! I had to leave my ward at home, but that's ok… he's still young, he wouldn't be able to travel far…" Prussia's smirk turned feral "I'm working hard for him, he'll be a strong, proud Nation!"

Italy tilted his head to the side. He'd heard that Prussia had found a young not–yet–Nation whilst in the middle of one of his wars, and that he planned to make him great, but he hadn't had any information on him.

Still, it didn't matter yet –Italy had no time to take interest in others trying to become Nations at the moment…

Maybe in the future, once Italy was a Nation as well, he would be more curious. But not yet.

"Ve~ Gilbert…"

"Ah, yes, of course! Ask me anything you want, Ita, I'll do what I can!"

Italy took a deep breath. This was going to work, he was sure of it. He would gain back his Venice and it would be one of the last steps towards a unified Italy.

They would do it.

"Gilbert~" he stated, seriously, one hand grabbing the other's arm. "I need to get Venice from Austria and make it mine again".

Prussia's expression turned feral, and a smirk, a predatory, _smug_ smirk, lifted his lips upwards.

He'd not been expecting for cute Italy to finally get out of his shell and demand his territories back, and surely it was a surprise to be asked for help, but…

Oh, yes. It was time to create new nations, it was time to show the world that it needed a change. Prussia was already offering this chance to someone else, and it wouldn't be a problem to add Italy to the equation.

And he still owed Austria one, in the end.

"That sounds like fun" he crooned. "Let's get started, Ita!"

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** if you liked, please comment!

_Fratello (Italian)_ – brother


	5. Soldier's soul

**SOY:** we're going back to the main storyline. Please enjoy the angst :)

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: Rated M.

**Chapter Warnings:** mentions of WWII and such. Yeah. XD

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Chapter 03 – Soldier's soul**

Germany reached Austria's house one hour later than planned (which made his eyebrow twitch in distress), as he'd needed some more time to organize through his thoughts; unfortunately, halfway through he'd developed a light headache.

It seemed that being around Italy proved to be far more difficult than he had anticipated it to be, and the piling stress was clearly bothering him.

Every time he looked at the other nation to yell at him or give him the daily training, he felt a confusing mix of feelings that left him dizzy –for someone like him, not used to that kind of emotions, it was utterly exhausting.

One of the strongest emotions was betrayal.

Maybe Italy hadn't been honest with him, not telling him about his feelings, but of course, Germany's rational mind could excuse him for that –feelings were something personal, and by the words the Italian had spoken when in presence of France, it was clear he felt ashamed of his feelings.

Of his lo–

But the betrayal he felt was more about how Italy had sought relief in France's arms –Germany had expected Italy to be more rigorous, and try to reign control of his bodily needs, not to run off to an enemy for… release.

The thought brought unwanted (yes, unwanted) mental images to Germany, and he shook his head again, trying not to think about them.

Yet, he couldn't confront the other about it –it would show Italy that Germany had followed him, making him a stalker of sorts…

It might give him ideas, and Germany didn't want that, either.

There was nothing there –his own feelings towards the Italian Nation were complicated, yes, but nowhere close to what… to what Italy had said back then.

And if… and if Germany found the Italian vaguely attracting, that meant nothing.

Something else Germany felt, and a much easier to understand emotion, was anger.

Because Italy was compromising the war by having an affair with an enemy, but even more –much to the blond man's shock– because of what Italy had said about himself.

Yes, maybe Feliciano was weak, and wimpy, and failed at anything remotely useful for war, cried far too often, failed at everything, but… Ludwig considered him his first friend, the closest thing to a family he ever had –all things considered, Gilbert as an older brother was more scary than anything else…

He was important to Ludwig first and foremost.

Besides, maybe war wasn't Italy's best point, but he was the one who knew all the routes, the shortcuts, the hiding places, the one who planned the ambushes, who knew the territories far too well, no matter how far from his home, who knew how to work with what they had.

His cooking lifted up the moral of the troops, too, and he also cheered them up with his jokes and clumsiness and instinctive friendly attitude.

Maybe he always ran away, and was a no–good person, but there were new sides of him that Germany kept discovering, and that made him think that… that… maybe it wasn't important if Italy didn't know how to fight.

He was useful in his own, strange, apparently useless way.

So why had Italy decided to keep away and hide instead of just talk to Germany? They were friends, it surely meant something… right?

'_It could be because of… that time'_ rationalising again, Germany was good at that.

Valentine's day had been particularly vexing on his mind; the Italian had not responded well to Germany's attempts at wooing him, and it was clear that he'd pitied the German man back then… so what did change since that day? why did Italy lo… why did Italy's feelings morph into something so dangerous now?

Had Feliciano lied back then? Or maybe, he had noticed how Ludwig's feelings for him were not honest, and had reacted accordingly, retreating and refusing to acknowledge them.

If that was true, then, was it better to forget what he'd seen? Because as sure as hell Ludwig had no intentions to change his own feelings towards the Italian just because of…

Another feeling was… happiness.

Happy because Italy was not planning to betray him. Happy because his words of lo… his words of care towards Germany were real, not fake. Because Italy truly cared for him, and even if that care had overflowed into something more daring and maybe a little bit scary, Germany appreciated it.

And then, there was desire.

Desire to hold Italy in his arms –heart thumping wildly, images slithering through his mind, of doing to Italy the same things France had done, but then it would be _his own hands_ on that body, and it would be _him_–

Why?

Feliciano wasn't by far the most attractive person ever. He was slightly feminine, and air–headed, and…

He wasn't a good soldier, he was jumpy and scared and silly, always smiling and doing stupid things, and bouncing and demanding hugs, and trying to run from responsibilities…

Why could that guy push him so far from how he should be? How could someone like Feliciano slide through all the carefully built walls of Ludwig's self control and reach so deeply into his heart and mind?

Proud and determinate, Germany had always fleshed himself to be a perfect soldier for his nation, for his people –pleasing his bosses, following all the orders… this was what he'd been created to be.

Did he really want Feliciano like that? Was it physical desire? Ludwig was familiar with that kind of need, as he'd his own (albeit incomplete) experiences… but… he could go without having them.

Yet this desire, this need to hold Feliciano, Italy, in his arms, kiss him, ravish that body, own it completely…

It didn't want to disappear.

Why was the desire presenting itself so desperately, so strongly, so hard to deny? Why now? What had broken down the walls of his self–control?

Was this simply Germany's mind trying to delude itself? To convince him that some feelings existed whereas there were none? He'd made himself sure of similar feelings at Valentine's day and had been wrong back then, so it meant he could be wrong again.

He could be thinking too much into things –maybe he'd only conditioned himself to feeling this need, this desire, this–

"_I entered the war only to be at Ludwig's side"._

It couldn't be possible. Italy surely had his own reasons for entering the war, for siding with Germany… his boss had wanted this, probably–

He'd seen a new side of Italy this time, and the image wouldn't leave him alone. He had to do something about it, but he refused to think about the implications. About what exactly his own feelings were. This _wasn't_ something deep. He couldn't think so.

_Wouldn't._

It went against everything he believed in, everything he stood for.

And yet, he needed some advice. Again. Roderich had helped him previously, so he would know what to do now… would he? The best course of action, so that he could go back and look at Feliciano in the eyes without blushing and wanting to…

Wanting to do more than allow Italy to hug him. Wanting to do more than just watch and endure Italy's endearing actions.

Make Italy unable to go to someone else.

No, he needed help. So that he could go back to being hugged without his insides twisting painfully, without his arms itching to wrap around Italy's shoulders.

So that there wouldn't be that strange fluttering in his stomach and he wouldn't want to actually hug Italy too. Or kiss him, or tell him–

Germany stopped, rubbing his forehead. His headache was growing stronger, making it hard to concentrate on… anything, really; little white spots dancing through his open eyes, and a strange desire to hum songs he never remembered having ever listened to.

Italy was making him forget there were other things, and more important than he was…

He had to stop this, and return to how he'd been before. Return his concentration on training his troops, on…

Go back to how it was _before_.

Straightening his back and passing his fingers through his hair, Ludwig knocked at the door of Roderich's house, trying to look normal.

For a moment, there was no reply, then the door opened to reveal a serious Austria; eyes widening at the sight of whom he had in front of him, the Austrian let out a polite cough. He definitely wasn't expecting Germany, of all people, to pop up at his house, especially after a month or so of absence and no calls nor visits.

"Ludwig" he stated, unsure of what to say.

Germany… wasn't looking fine, at all. It was clear war was taking a toll on him, physically and surely mentally… Austria knew how that felt. He looked pale, and tired, and his clothes were not in the usual pristine condition he kept them all the time.

Was had no respect nor mercy for anyone.

"Roderich… I think I need… _help_" Germany murmured, unsure of his words and on how to approach the subject.

Austria blinked in surprise. Well, that was unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

"So, it came down to this, huh" Roderich's hands tightened on the door's length, knuckles turning white. "I was wondering… since things kept spiralling downwards without you trying to _do_ something… if you… I'm glad".

Ludwig stilled. What was the Austrian talking about? He was sure things with Feliciano wouldn't be this obvious to other nations, and yet here he was, with Roderich acting as if he _knew_…

"I thought you would just force yourself to bear the situation" Austria sighed, brushing his hair away from his face and motioning for Germany to enter. The German did so, frowning lightly, and following the older nation to the sitting room. "You see, I've always thought you would be conflicted about things, since you were brought up as a soldier, and thus would be unwilling to question your bosses about the current situation, but I'm glad you decided to talk this out with me…"

And he_ was_ glad. Roderich felt his insides twist painfully. It could be a sign. Things could still change. He felt guilty because _that person_ controlling Germany had been one of _his_ children once.

Maybe Germany was going to stand up and ask for help, and they could still change the course of actions. They were maybe still in time to correct those mistakes, and–

Austria turned around, a pleased and relieved smile on his lips, but stopped once he noticed Germany standing still behind him, face carefully blank, void of emotions.

"Ludwig… wasn't this what you wanted to talk about with me?" Roderich hesitantly reached out with one hand to touch the other nation's shoulder. "The state of the war? Of how it's crumbling around us… what your boss is doing, how he's only ruining what Gilbert helped build, your nation, your people hurting…?"

"_Crumbling_" Germany's voice was low and cold, and Roderich's hand froze in midair, quickly twitching away from him.

"Ludw…"

Deep blue eyes, furious and swirling with anger met his own.

"How can you question my boss like this?" the anger surging in Ludwig's body took over his previously confused thoughts.

No one could question the power, the authority, like this. They were just soldiers. Austria was under Germany's control, after all, they couldn't question his boss' way to conduct the war. The headache grew _stronger_ and he took a step forwards, frown deepening.

His body was aching. He'd been hiding it, minimizing the situation, and he knew better than others that it was just temporary.

He couldn't question his own boss, because he was a _soldier_. He had to obey and keep his head lowered, because his boss, despite not offering explanations or news the more months rolled by, was still fighting for his nation.

Germany believed this –or at least he _forced_ himself to believe this.

Despite the headache. Despite the pain that curled inside him every day. Despite the lack of information and orders other than 'keep training'. Despite his boss keeping him in his house, not wanting him at councils and meetings.

Despite those darkened eyes, unreadable, despite the smirk and the regulations that had far too little offered and far too much to be explained.

He would never question his boss… because then… because then the whole meaning of his upbringing would crumble. He couldn't believe otherwise.

Be proud.

Stand tall and strong and protect and _serve_ your commander.

Fight for him and do not _hesitate_, do not _think_, do not ask yourself questions, only move in synch and _accept_, because it's a two–way protection.

_Unity and Justice and Freedom._

If his own people couldn't fight for _him_, for _Germany_, for their nation… then… then…

His Führer knew what he was doing, and if he didn't tell his own Nation about it… it didn't matter. He _wouldn't_ question it.

_Never_.

He was a _soldier_. Germany _was_ a soldier. He couldn't allow himself to doubt.

"Ludwig! Listen to me…" Austria felt sudden fear pool inside his stomach. Germany's eyes were dark and deep and the emotions swirling inside them were overwhelming. There was anger, but there was also a barely restrained uncertainty, and fear… they were burning with it all, hidden under his rules and laws and need to believe in _something_.

This side of Ludwig… it was raw and clawing at his insides, fighting its way out, roaring –slashing at him with strength and fear, and denial.

In that moment, Roderich realised that whilst Germany had already been in wars before, they were _recent_. And Ludwig was, technically speaking, young. He was dealing with something sudden and unwanted, but albeit young, he was shaped with no other notion than that of the strict way of the soldier.

And a soldier couldn't waver.

Austria just knew in that moment, the truth that he had desperately tried to refuse –that Germany _couldn't_ save himself. That he would close his eyes and follow his orders even if those orders brought him to his death. To crumble and die.

The truth hit Roderich like a sharpened blade, slicing through his thoughts and making him stumble backwards.

It was slaughter until no one would stand up anymore. Until the Führer controlled the whole world, and the whole world would be naught but ruins. No one safe, no one alive, the power centralised to a single person. Escalating to hell.

The only way out… the only way out was to _oppose_.

All of this was the flash of a single instant, whilst staring Germany in the eyes, and Austria felt terribly empty.

"Please, stop denying yourself the truth! Certain times… humans cannot think of what's best for their nation… they only think about power… we've seen that already, right? Check the reports! He's hiding it, but we know better! Check them, Ludwig!"

Composure gone, urgency lacing his words, Austria tried to move forwards, grabbing at Germany's arm, trying to make him _see_–

"_Nein_! You're spouting nonsense!"

His hand was slapped away –blue eyes looking down at him in almost disgust.

"Ludwig! It's still not too late! It can't be too late! You can still fight it!"

Ludwig turned around without a word, and left Roderich's house, slamming the front door with all of his strength.

Austria fell on the nearest chair, face ashen white and trembling hands, twitching in distress.

No music would ever be able to unveil the helplessness he felt as he watched Germany leave. Sometimes… sometimes he felt far too _human_.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** I'm sorry if this chapter was shorter than usual, but I couldn't add anything to it, even in the edit there was just a bunch of words added to it… still, if you ended up liking it, that'll be enough. Thank you, everyone!


	6. Inability

**SOY:** I'm sorry if it took so much to get this chapter out. It was ready a bit of time ago, but I was kind of taken by other APH projects and forgot to post it… I hope you like!

I also realise that this is moving slowly, and doesn't have much interaction yet… I swear things will be different in the next few chapters!

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: Rated M.

**Chapter Warnings:**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Chapter 04 – Inability**

When Romano finally returned to the Allies' headquarters, his brother hanging over his shoulder, still dead to the world, the other Nations present at the time had been utterly shocked.

At the time of his return, only England and China were around; America, busy with his superiors, had vacated the building for the last few days, planning the next attacks and wondering how things would go once Germany's boss found out about the armistice with Italy. Russia was fighting on his own, a long battle that was dragging his enemies down through lack of resistance and proper weaponries; France was somewhere, no one knew where exactly.

The moment the southern part of Italy stepped through the door, wobbling through the main hall under the dead weight of his younger brother, both Allies present had realised that things had not exactly been sorted out as easily as they had hoped.

Arthur had been present for the actual armistice, although keeping a low profile, standing next to one of his ministers, Harold; Alfred had been there as well, beaming at his own representative, expectantly following the steps of the signing without truly keeping his attention on it.

Then, of course, there was Lovino and the Italian man that signed it.

The English Nation knew the truth behind the armistice –that it wasn't truly a pact… or a truce. It was mere appearance, an empty shell; the Italians had been given a way out, an escapade of sorts… either accept defeat under the pretence of a truce, of an agreement… or they'd fall under the attack of the Allies, and be dismembered, reduced to nothing, partitioned.

Divided again, probably.

Italy's King had accepted the truce, knowing it would be the best option, especially after imprisoning Mussolini away, the man that alone had brought Italy to war, far too eager to please his German allies that he'd sent so many Italians to war without the proper equipment…

During the signing of the armistice Lovino had remained in the back, hiding behind some of his humans, following the negotiations whilst fidgeting, face scrunched up in a grimace that didn't disappear, not even after they'd shaken hands…

Frustrated. England knew of that feeling. Romano had wanted to be strong and proud, to fight, to prove his usefulness… but once again the Italians had been defeated, and this time their loss had been caused not by their lack of skills, but by someone's hurry.

The Italian Nation was divided internally, split not because of war, but because of something more important and painful.

Each step Lovino took, hesitant and strained, through the corridor, made it easier for Arthur to sympathise with him.

They had been enemies until moments before, but it didn't really matter, or at least it didn't anymore. The wars meant nothing for someone who could basically live forever, grudges never lasted long, no real hatred.

Only a never-ending lesson to be learned, and England had enough time to assimilate his own part of it. Over and over.

In the end, they were naught but a few. They had to go with the flow if human wars demanded it, but it didn't matter much in the end.

And the situation going on for the two Italies… it was all too familiar to Arthur.

It brought back memories. Memories that tasted of soil and blood and sweat, when instead of automatic weapons and planes there had only been muskets. Horses had brought soldiers through empty fields, not tanks. The smell of the gunpowder drenching the air, in clouds of dark dirt that made your throat burn and sting…

Standing proudly on the top of a hill, embracing a rifle, dirty from mud and blood, running down, against the enemies–

And the rain falling down, making you even more pathetic and alone.

Advancing through muddy terrains, facing another Nation on the other end of the field, staring at each other's faces, grim and determinate, then attacking, and the rain didn't stop falling, and…

Oh, England _knew_ what it meant to have a dear one standing on the opposite side.

Trying to make them understand that whatever actions had been made were for the best, trying to let them see that despite everything, he still cared for them. Trying to…

One could sin of an inflated ego, boasting of being the strongest… only to be brought down in a second, tasting dirt and soil. England also knew of that feeling.

Winning was one thing –losing was another. It helped to see things in a different angle… and that was why, as Romano passed through the corridor, he was the first to proudly meet his eyes, and turn his back at him, offering some sort of gruff respect, and his silence, not commenting on the Italian's unsteady steps, on his bleeding legs, his pale skin, or how his younger brother's body looked more like a corpse.

It was private –it was a struggle belonging to those two, and he was just an outsider. Maybe he couldn't offer Romano any pride for the loss, but he could show his respect through other means.

Maybe they were weak now, weighted down by pain, indecisions and wrong choices, but they deserved it as Nations.

China observed the two Italies with eyes lost in the distance, as though relieving his own painful memories, hands twitching and gently coming to rest to his chest. War was far too skilled in making old, painful memories resurface, burning and still so fresh…

England could see that, and maybe the Chinese Nation –so old, older than any of them– was also reminiscing of blood and blades unsheathed to attack; of lost trust and missing nights spent together, watching the sky, the stars and the sunrise.

Maybe Yao was remembering of holding a baby to his arms, giving him care and warmth, only to receive a nasty wound that would never truly heal…

And China, too, slowly and silently, turned his back to the two brothers, face for once not offering a silly, crooked smile.

Lovino's frozen face relaxed at this, grateful he was allowed to step on his own, unsteady legs instead of being mortified by accepting more help that he could afford himself to.

The weight of his fainted brother heavy on his shoulder, Lovino fought against burning tears, gritting his teeth and tightening his hold on the other's frame.

They would come out of it.

They would be ok.

…–…–…–…

When Italy woke up, on a smooth, comfortable and impersonal bed, the Allies were all around him. Waiting.

For a moment, a single instant between wake and sleep, Italy hesitated, eyes darkened up, and stared at them. They were not just enemies (former enemies at that), but simply… nations. Maybe even less, or more, than just that.

Not human beings, yet humans all the same.

For that single moment, something had been shared among them –a silence, maybe, an offering of peace… the deep knowledge that they were there to offer him understanding, even comfort…

Understanding.

It didn't last long. As soon as Italy really understood where he was, and what had happened, his brain had been swept away by strong, heavy guilt.

He'd allowed his brother to take him away, and now… and Germany was…

Feliciano cried. Hard. Choking on his breath, lungs constricting in his chest, he'd cried, uncaring if the Allies saw him. Weeping so pitifully, so honestly for the grief that was washing through him that none of the Nations in the room could comment on his actions –they were not tears of childish fear or vain weakness… they were the tears of a Nation coming to terms with the truth.

Once again, Yao looked away, the sight a far too familiar one that he could empathize with.

Yet, the Allies had not backed down –Italy needed to stay put, and they wouldn't free him. Only asking for information, dreading his replies and nodding all the same.

Unable to ignore the pain racking through his body, Italy had caved in, offering all that he could so that the other Nations would leave him alone, knowing that if the war ended soon, he would be able to see Germany again.

Forced to stay in the room, his prisoners knowing he would only run away if he was let out, the Italian spent the whole time curled up on the bed, ignoring the company of the others, even that of his own brother.

Yes, their actions were justified, and the more Italy thought about the war, about Germany's boss, the more he knew they were on the right side, but that didn't make it hurt less.

With a nation so young and bent on obedience as the German was, this betrayal wouldn't sound like a normal switching sides, as it would to any of the older nations. He would be hurt by it. Feel betrayed, alone –and it was all Italy's fault, for not realising sooner, for not offering the only thing he had… his experience.

Three days later, Lovino returned to his boss, preparing to fight off Germany from his territories and unable to look at his brother's face, fearing what he could find in those brown eyes.

Guilt racked his body and yet he didn't feel sorry at all. Maybe Feli would hate him now, but… he'd done it for them. It was his decision.

He'd taken it upon his shoulders, and Feli _would_ understand.

The headquarters were strangely silent after he left. The Nations moved with caution when approaching Feliciano's room, the upsetting, choked noises coming from behind the closed door enough to stop any of them from entering.

It was not a secret Italy was suffering.

He'd betrayed Germany –he'd betrayed Ludwig. Or at least that was what he believed, and the thought of having left him alone was more painful than what his body felt physically for the war. Maybe he was weak and useless in battle, but there was still difference between being alone and being with someone.

And now Germany had been left _alone_. There was still Japan, of course, but… he wasn't _there_ all the time. He couldn't support him completely, offer him someone to yell at, someone to say a few words to. He…

"_Petite Italie_…" Francis lingered on the door of the room, watching how Italy helplessly looked out of the window, knowing that no matter what he could say, Feliciano would never stop feeling guilty. "I…"

But what could he say?

France could flirt, and be serious when needed, and conscientious, and loyal… but he didn't know how to console someone like this. What words to say in order to help Italy.

He was helpless in this, just like the others, who didn't really know Italy enough to even try offering some comfort.

Stepping closer to the weeping Feliciano, Francis carefully made him turn around. Puffy, red eyes looked up at him, filled with raw despair. The Frenchman couldn't truly understand why his little brother was acting so depressed –they all had to stand aches, pain and rejection, but it was in the nature of all Nations to turn how their people wanted to…

Feliciano buried his face in Francis' chest when the older man hesitantly hugged him, closing his eyes and trying to convey to his younger brother that everything would be ok in the end.

For sure.

It was painful to know that Italy was suffering –not just because of war, but because he'd fallen in love with the blind German Nation, and he guessed that made it all more serious.

France had been bossy over _petite Italie_ once, growing fonder of the stupid kid proclaiming his hatred for war the more they spent time together.

He'd been there when Italy refused to grow up, to invade other nations and become stronger, because he despised war –drawing and creating instead.

He'd been there when Italy had devoted himself completely to art and sculpture and painting and poetry and everything, carefully choosing to ignore and evade the world around him… not wanting to cause pain, nor feel it.

He'd been there to see Holy Roman Empire. A name that had not been uttered loudly in centuries now. He'd seen Italy's love blossom like a scared bud, and then grow stronger, only to have its stem cut roughly before it could come to its full beauty.

Nations suffered during war, but they fought anyway, whilst Italy had suffered the most because of his _hatred_ for war. Because he evaded it. Because he was afraid and praying for peace.

A nation that hated war… was it even possible for such an oxymoron to exist?

Clinging to life despite all of that.

He had been there to see Italy embark on his first war by himself, to reunite with his brother. A war to bring peace… France had never _believed_ that belief could really _work_, but with Italy, it clearly could. The one and only battle born from him, and it had been successful.

He had been standing on the sidelines when everything had ended, and thanks to Prussia, of all people. France had tried to keep some of Italy for himself, in a selfish desire to hold control over this younger brother whom he cared for, but the now Italian Nation had politely chased him out, even asking Prussia for help.

And Venezia had joined the rest of Italy, and then Gilbert allowed the Italian to get Rome, too. and Feliciano's dream of having an united family came true. Francis had been there for that as well.

He'd been there to tell Italy the truth afterwards.

Of Holy Roman.

Of how he was the one to blame for his death. Of how he had dealt the last blow on it, helping it crumble.

He'd turned a blind eye as Feliciano cried on a broken heart and an empty chest, for a void that he felt would never be filled ever again, for a love that was gone, so terrifyingly glad that the Italian couldn't hate him for that, _wouldn't_ hate him for that.

Francis had been there for all of this. Watching and suffering for his _Petite Italie_, watching him retreat and suffer more, and hate war twice as hard. Watching him strive for his peace filled with art that was just _not_ going to exist.

Italy wasn't really stupid or weak, but ever since the very start, he had just never contemplated having an option other than abhor war.

France held Italy close and felt tears sting in his own eyes, because it wasn't the first time. And it might not be the last.

And France had truly believed he could help that day, when Germany had stalked Italy to his house (how could he _not_ feel it, how could he _not_ see the German hiding behind a tree, flushed and confused). He'd casually made Italy talk, to make the _other_ understand.

So that maybe this war could be the start of something good amidst all the pain.

Unfortunately, he'd been too late, Germany would probably be too confused and inwardly split, and with Italy's switching sides, maybe, that was exactly what the Italian feared.

Useless –France had no power to help.

"It will be ok, _mon petit_, it will be ok…"

Outside of the room, England tightened his hold on the documents he needed France to sign; frozen on the spot and unable to move, else he'd break the frail thread that tied the two nations in the room.

He knew North Italy needed that comfort, and even if it was someone like that lecherous, snail–eater goatee bastard that could offer it, then it was still good.

England took a deep breath and walked away, not looking back.

There would be time for signing papers later.

…–…–…–…

Germany didn't go to his boss the day he spoke with Austria.

He returned to his house in a hurry, upset and angered, but all of that steamed off by the time he unlocked his door and stepped inside, shutting the world out again; confusion being the only thing he felt.

Why would Roderich contest the bases of his own beliefs? His inner self protested loudly against the accusation, almost nailing and growing like a violent wave inside him.

Oh, he seriously _didn't_ like it.

When alone with his thoughts, in secret, mostly at night (especially when Italy's presence was not at his side to steer these thoughts away) he'd pondered over his boss' actions. How his superior's ideas were, sometimes… but just sometimes…

Not _wrong_ (the word didn't even leave the confines of his mind. It was _shot_ before being _completed_ even there) but… maybe… questionable.

At times.

Like his strange quirks, or his actions against gypsies, and Hebrews, and…

But that was before. Nowadays, no information was passed along, maybe because his boss didn't believe in him anymore –didn't believe that he could understand his actions, when even before, he had hard time understanding them.

Ludwig, as a solder, did what he did best –_obey_ without complaints. Not even allowing himself the luxury to think.

But it all piled up. With Italy's words, with the confusion growing inside him, also Austria's words were just an added weight. Words that felt _true_, but that Germany could _not_ accept. He'd been so sure of himself before, before Italy. And after Italy, that resolution had remained, if not concerning the Italian nation.

Why were his grounds, everything he stood for, being shaken, being repeatedly bombarded, and rendered frail?

'_Shouldn't they stand despite all of this? Shouldn't I have no problems believing the truth of my own words? I'm an unworthy soldier…'_

He couldn't evade either situation, because if he turned his back from one, the other crashed against him. If it wasn't Feliciano, then it was the war. And everything was so confusing.

Wasn't it all Italy's fault, in the end? Messing up with his mind, making him feel things? Making him… question himself, his beliefs and his reasons to _exist_ and _serve_?

Wasn't a nation's meaning to just work and do what their bosses wanted?

Opening the door of his bedroom, Ludwig allowed his tired body to fall on his bed. Feliciano's smell on the sheets assaulted his senses and he pulled away a bit, but unable to resist, tired as he was, he gave up and closed his eyes.

He shifted around, strangely uncomfortable, but not understanding why, and forced himself to steer his thoughts in a line that he could follow. If only he could resolve both problems… erase them… settle down… it would put everything in place again.

Roderich's face. Why had he been so sure of himself? Stating things with such security. Like he'd lost all hope, and yet… and yet…

"_Ludwig… wasn't this what you wanted to talk about with me? The state of the war? Of how it's crumbling around us… what your boss is doing, how he's only ruining what Gilbert helped build, your nation, your people hurting…?"_

It couldn't be true. It was hurting only because his boss was making the necessary sacrifices in order to… in order to…

"_Check the reports! He's hiding it, but we know better! Check them, Ludwig!"_

There would be no reports to check. He had to stay in his place. To see his Führer now… was the wrong course of action.

Strengthening his resolve, breathing deeply, and remembering whom he was serving and who he was in the first place helped him built up his walls again. It was painstakingly slow, but he turned away from all his doubts, just like it had to be.

Finally positive he wasn't crumbling, collecting his thoughts and recounting all his self–imposed laws and regulations, knowing he was a mere soldier even before being anything else, Ludwig felt a strange sort of unsettling peace fall over his shoulders. His headache was growing worse and he was getting weaker, and he had barely any hunger nowadays, but it would come to pass. The war couldn't be going on forever.

And when it finished, he would show them all. How he was right.

'_And about Italy… about Italy…' _he gritted his teeth.

He had to face Feliciano, look at him in the eyes, and understand. He needed to talk to the Italian and straighten things, otherwise he would never step out of that insecurity.

He would tell him that nothing could ever exist between them. That they were friends, of course, but that meant nothing and…

Nodding to himself, Ludwig forced his weakened body to stand back up, refusing to let go and rest, refusing to let his aching muscles to relax, refusing to allow sleep to get a hold on him.

There would be time to sleep at night.

Sighing, he left the room to search for Italy.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** I hope you appreciated this new chapter. I made some fixing of mistakes in the previous chapters, too, but nothing big.

_Petite Italie (French)_ – Little Italy

_Mon petit (French)_ – my little (endearing)


	7. Interlude: Sound of footsteps

**SOY:** for those who were waiting an actual chapter, I'm sorry, that's another interlude. This one deals with France telling Italy about HRE's death. Beware for angst, of course. Next chapter, more of the actual storyline. ^^ thanks a lot to everybody that is following and reviewing. Love you all!

Edit: My usual break-liners can't be used any more, so now you get this new one.

…-…-…-…-…-…-…

**Rating**: Rated M.

**Chapter Warnings:**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…-…-…-…-…-…-…

**Growing to…**

**Interlude – Sound of footsteps**

Italy fell on the ground, crying.

Tears were falling from his eyes and he couldn't stop them, but he _didn't_ want to. Those were not tears of pain –he was happy. Happy, _deliriously_ happy.

The feeling bubbled up from deep inside him, growing stronger, fluttering and exploding out of his lips in a strangled, strained laugh that sounded like screeching to his ears, filled with something teetering from pain to insanity.

It had ended.

Finally, after so long, it was the end.

"Feliciano…"

At his side, Romano dropped to his knees next to him, breathing hard and clutching at his bleeding shoulder with an unsteady hand; they were in the middle of the city, with houses turned into crumbled ruins, and if they looked too close, there were also many corpses around them, enemies and allies alike.

Many had lost their lives during that long battle, and the sole thought brought a sheer pain inside Italy's heart. He had been the one to start this war, the first and sole battle he had taken upon himself, and those souls were heavy on his conscience.

And yet… and yet…

"We did it," he rasped out.

He was shaking, the laughter still escaping from his lips, and he tried to hold his arms still by holding onto the ground, and glancing to the left, Italy could see that his brother was also shivering uncontrollably.

They had fought so hard, fighting against all hope, for once in their lives not holding back, and now…

"We did it," Feliciano repeated, as his laughter finally subsided in a choked silence. "We're…"

"_Siamo una Nazione, finalmente!_" Lovino interrupted him, lips stretching into a satisfied, giddy smirk.

"Yes. We're a Nation now –we're Italy," the younger brother murmured, still in disbelief.

Rome was standing all around them, in its fallen glory, and even though they had conquered it with a huge, painful fight, thrashing and slashing and kicking, with many lives lost, and so much of that city would have to be built again… it had never looked more beautiful to Italy's eyes.

With this fight, they had finally gained back the last of their territory –Rome, once belonging to the Papal States, was now Italian territory, and not just that… it was going to be their Capital.

Even though North and South Italy had been free for at least a decade, they had continued fighting, wanting to gain back all the territories and regions that were theirs by right, to make that dream come true –the same dream that many humans had shared, from their dear Garibaldi, Mazzini and Cavour to King Vittorio Emanuele, fighting to the notes of the poem that Mameli had composed not even thirty years before.

A unified Reign of Italy, free from chains, free to stand up on its own.

It was the end of their long war.

"Feli…" for once without a gruff grimace, South Italy turned to his brother, ignoring the flaring pangs coming from his shoulders, and slowly extended one hand to him, palm open wide.

They might have been apart in the past, and maybe they would keep fighting like siblings did, and maybe Romano was still somewhat envious of his brother's skills that he thought he lacked, but…

But this feeling only belonged to them both. They were not a Nation by themselves… they were one nation, together.

Italy's smile, albeit hesitant and pained, as he grasped his brother's hand in his own, was probably the best thing Romano had seen in a long, long while.

All their sacrifices, the deaths had brought to this –they had been able to stand and not fall back down, succeeding where many others had failed before them; so many non–nations had tried and failed in their quests for independence, but the two brothers, thought weak, had made it through.

Against all odds, they were still standing, and they were finally a Nation.

"Feli, let's go," pride filling his tired voice, Romano stood up, still clutching at his shoulder, but willing to forget about the pain for the moment. He hoisted Italy up with him, noticing how he heavily shifted his weight on one leg. "Can you feel it? Our people are celebrating".

He was right –deep inside them, happiness belonging to their people was humming like a hymn.

Nodding tiredly, Italy stepped forwards, and instantly collapsed against his brother, who hissed in pain, and both had to held tightly on each other so they wouldn't fall down again.

Italy let out a soft chuckle, and Romano grunted. "I want a house of my own, mind you" he muttered, though the harsh tones were not present in his voice. "I'll go crazy if I have to live with you all the time –I want Napoli. You can keep your Venezia".

With a happy nod, the younger of the two snuggled closer, much to Romano's chagrin. "Let's keep this one for us both, Lovi" he made a wide, sweeping motion, indicating Rome.

"It's trash right now," Romano commented, looking around. "It will take a while to fix everything".

"Yeah…"

They remained in silence for a moment more, deep in thought and allowing their people's emotions to wash over them, soothing the pain and tiredness.

"I want wine" Lovino huffed, shaking himself out of his trance. "A bottle. Maybe two, if we can find them… and food. I'm not moving unless I get food".

"Ve~ a plate of pasta~" Feliciano agreed, wiping the tears away from his cheeks with bloody fingers. "It's been a long time since I've had yummy pasta".

"Sure with lots of tomato sauce," the older of the two agreed as they started walking down the street. "But after that, let's chase those frog eaters out. I don't want to see the French bastard anytime soon either… or else he'll try to grope and get the territories again!"

"Brother~ he wouldn't try to hold onto us, not now that we finally gained back Rome… if his people want to try, we can stop them, but he won't touch our territories".

Romano wanted to ask his brother what made him so sure that France wouldn't bitch at them, but at Italy's open, confident gaze he simply shook his head, deciding to trust his instinct. After all, France was Italy's 'big brother' figure, and maybe he was right about it…

"Still, he's a lecherous old man, and even when we asked, he didn't help!" he knew there was something to blame on France, and South Italy wasn't one to spare insults when he didn't have to. "I'll live happily even without seeing him anymore!"

The sudden silence from his brother caught his attention, and when he stared at Italy's face, he didn't even find him looking the slightest bit sheepish.

"… what?"

"Ve~ he is waiting for us at a restaurant close by for a congratulations toast…"

"… damn it".

…-…-…-…

"Congratulations are a must, I guess," Austria coughed into his hand, expression carefully neutral.

Smiling at him, grateful for his presence despite the tense relationship the two had during the last decade, Italy lifted the glass full of crimson wine enough that the pale light of the inn could shine on the liquid. "Thank you, Roderich, ve~"

Austria's cheeks tinged red and he looked away; how could he hold a grudge against Italy? After everything the little kid went through, he deserved to be happy, and gaining the status of a Nation was clearly what he had wanted all that time.

What if to become independent he had to take territories away from him? Austria could recognise strength when he had it in front of him, and the Italian brothers had shown an unexpected amount of such.

They deserved this, and Austria would not scorn them for it. He could live without these territories, and if he had to be completely honest with himself…

'_I'm proud of you, Feliciano… even though I might never tell you that,'_ he thought, fingers tracing the contours of his own glass of wine. _'You went a long way and survived, too'._

If anything, Italy looked the happiest he'd ever seen, even if covered with bandages and clearly aching all over, in need of a good night's sleep and a change of clothes (and a bath). He guessed this was enough.

"Congratulations, Feli~" Hungary held one of Italy's hands into her own and tugged him close, leaning forwards to kiss him delicately on his forehead. "You've really grown, and I'm so proud of you~ and Roderich is too, don't mind him too much, ok?"

Austria rolled his eyes, looking to the side where Prussia was sprawled on the seat, dozing off. Wine wasn't really his cup of alcohol, after all.

Italy basked in their compliments, allowing Hungary to dot over him and hold him close every few minutes, yet one of his hands kept returning to that of his brother, almost as if asking for confirmation that he was really here; Romano accepted the gesture without speaking, trying to look superior but inwardly just as needy for the comfort.

They idea of finally living by themselves… he needed some more time for reality to finally reach him –they were standing on their own legs, this time.

"Ve~ let's make a toast, come on!" Italy chirped, almost knocking the bottle down the table with an elbow. "To our independence!"

Spain, who had been cooing at Romano the whole time, cheered and elbowed Prussia to wake him up, holding his wine up high, and France, who had been sitting quietly on the other end of the table nodded and straightened up, mimicking his friend.

The Italian brothers were definitely out of his control now, and he knew that the flicker of disappointment he felt had more to do with the loss of Italy's presence in his house than the territories he'd lost, though he knew the two brothers deserved freedom more than many others.

Glaring a bit at the Prussian Nation, who was grunting and nudging at Italy's side, smiling widely, France let a soft smile appear on his lips.

"To my _petites Italies_," he murmured, brushing his lips against his glass, tongue flickering out to lick at some droplets rolling down its surface. "Stand tall and proud".

South Italy growled in his direction, but having one arm locked into Spain's hands and his other hand taken by his brother, he could do nothing –besides, alcohol had mellowed down his attitude, so after Italy nudged at him, he nodded in thanks and downed the rest of his wine without further ado.

Italy sipped at his own wine in small, quick gulps, smiling warmly at France as he did so.

Watching Prussia and France start bickering again, with no Spain to stop them (he was too busy trying to hug Romano to care), Italy smiled to himself, feeling satisfied. It felt nice –like an extended, expanded family.

Austria and Hungary were glaring at Prussia, with the female nation ready to use her frying pan against him if he didn't stop picking on France (though the Frenchman was just as guilty, in the end), and using this moment of distraction to his advantage, France sobered up and leaned forwards to look at Italy from above his glass of wine.

"_Petite Italie_," he stated, suddenly serious. Italy blinked, surprised at the sudden change of tone. "If you don't mind, I would like to have a word with you, now".

As if hit by a lightening, both Austria and Hungary froze, sharing a worried, tense look. Prussia grunted, glad to be safe, but the moment the words caught on with him, he coughed into his hand, calming down.

Spain and Romano, not feeling the sudden change of atmosphere, continued their wrestling, and Italy let Romano's hand slip away from his hold, feeling that something was wrong but not understanding what.

"Uh, _certo_, Francis…"

"I think I'll retire… it's a long way from here to mu house," Austria stood up, nodding shortly at the others, and dropping some coins on the table. "Elizaveta, dear, will you come with me?"

"Oi, oi, stupid Roddie, I'm coming too. I wouldn't want you to molest poor Eli here!" Prussia hastily stood up as well, moving to the other side of the table.

"If anything, that would be you, idiot" Austria replied, but his words lacked meaning, eyes returning to Italy every few seconds.

"Hey, Spain!" Prussia's tone turned excessively bright "Let's get little Lovi here safely home, you wouldn't want him to get lost, right?"

Romano's yelling about the impossibility for him to get lost in his own city was completely ignored, and seconds later Spain and Prussia were tugging him out of the inn, covering his mouth to stifle his cursing.

Feliciano waved at Roderich and Elizaveta and turned his attention to Francis, feeling vaguely upset; maybe Romano was right and France wanted his territories back…?

"I–if this is about my territories, ve…" Italy tried to frown, but failed spectacularly, as it looked more like a pout than anything else "I am not going to have you get them at all… it's either you move out by the end of this week, or we'll chase you out. No offense, big brother, but that's enough fights for me".

Francis' expression didn't change, and Italy gulped down his uneasiness, not understanding.

"V–ve~" trying to think of a reason why the French Nation would turn from happy to serious like this, and failing. "I did thank you, right? I'm glad you stood by my side, helping me, and it has been a lot since…"

"Feli, are you still waiting?" France interrupted him with a low voice, sending chills through Italy's frame. The older Nation wasn't looking at him, eyes fixed on the glass in his hands, fingers clenched tightly around it. "Because Feliciano, he _won't_ be coming back".

"Ve~? What… what are you saying? Who… who won't be coming back?"

His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, but he refused to think about the implication in France's words. Surely he was misunderstanding.

"Ah… sorry," France pressed one hand on his forehead, eyes avoiding the young Italian, whose eyes were staring at him in confusion. "The Holy Roman Empire is no more" he added.

It was strange, how easily those words finally left his mouth.

Of all the battles he'd fought in his life, only a few of them had been memorable, and only a few of them were worth of being remembered; but out of them all, that single battle, many years before, had been the one to sign the end of a growing Nation.

If France concentrated enough, he could still remember clearly the smell of death and blood surrounding him as he advanced towards the small, frail body, staring down at it with fear and pity.

It was the first time France had seen the death of one of his kind.

Many other Nation–wannabes had failed and fallen, but that one had mattered because it had been against France that he had been defeated, and it had mattered because…

Because of _Italy_.

It took France, usually courageous and proud, almost a century to find it in himself to face Italy and tell him, watch those brown, innocent eyes and tell him that his love would never come back… and now… and now, his words sounded so _weak_ to his ears.

Pointless, empty and uncaring.

'_But Italy is a Nation now…'_ a part of him cried out, unsettled.

He needed to know. It was his right to. And he needed to let go!

"Eh?"

Italy's heart stopped right then, his face frozen into a blank mask. France's words registered slowly into his brain, leaping forwards, assaulting his mind and covering everything else with a loud roar.

His lips stretched into a vague, empty smile.

France was joking. There was no other possibility.

"You should forget about him," France continued, still looking to the side. His expression was sheepish, hiding his own hesitance behind an exasperated exterior, but Italy didn't see that. He couldn't see anything then. "You've already suffered enough, haven't you?"

"Eh… brother France… it's not… nice to joke about this…" Italy's voice faltered as he spoke, hands coming to grip the table's surface. "I'm finally independent… I've waited so long, but now… he'll be back soon now. He will see this new me. He'll smile and come to live with me. _Don't joke around!_"

Eyes open wide, with panic slowly bubbling up to his throat, choking and burning its way up–

"Feliciano… that's the truth. Believe me. I've seen him".

With that, France looked up, so busy keeping his emotions hidden behind an apparent calm that he didn't realise how uncaring his words had sounded until he met Italy's eyes.

There was a new, opaque quality in them –blank, glassy, empty; France knew instantly that no matter how many years would pass from then on, something in Italy had died, and would not come back.

Maybe he should have waited. Maybe he should have been merciful, sparing his little, adored brother this pain, maybe–

"Ho… Holy Roman Empire promised me he would come back" Italy's tone had lowered down into an unsteady whisper. "He said I wouldn't need to wait too long. I have, but… but it's ok. Wars can go on, and on… but he can't be… he promised me, I said I would wait with sweets…"

France closed his eyes, unable to look any more.

He'd thought –hoped– that Italy's feelings for the Holy Roman Empire had been a crush, a puppy love. Something easily forgotten, something that he could leave behind. After all, how could someone as innocent and sweet as Italy fall for that person? Impossible. Unconceivable.

Holy Roman was nothing but a brat, possessive, stupid, a scared kid with desires and aims too big for his little body.

Seeking power, seeking lands, wanting to be as big as Rome…

How could someone like Italy fall for _him_?

"_I think it was love at first sight for Holy Roman Empire,"_ Austria's words rushed back to France's mind, words he had not believed to be true before. _"It was… embarrassing to look at. Almost far too silly, at least until… at least until Italy started reciprocating it. Someone like Italy can't fake his feelings. He fell in love, and it could only be love, since the very start"._

"Feli… it has been over sixty years since his death," France leaned forwards, grabbing one of Italy's hands into his own when he noticed his nails digging into the table's surface. "I couldn't… _we_ couldn't tell you. I thought… that you would forget about him with time, not holding onto that crush…"

'_Crush'_.

Italy lowered his eyes to the hand holding his own, and suddenly bile was rushing up to his throat.

'_No!'_

In the blink of an eye, he was standing up from the table, pushing away from France.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, echoing through his mind, washing away any other sound; he wasn't even aware that he had moved until he was up and away, eyes wide yet mostly unseeing, glazed over.

"Not true," he murmured, lips barely moving. "Lying. You're lying. You… Why? I thought… you're lying".

Why was his heart still beating? If HRE was dead, then what about him? had he been left behind again?

"Feli…" Francis stood up as well, moving towards him, hands outstretched. "I'm not… it's not a lie. I was the one who fought against him in the end. My troops met with his last soldiers, they fought, and I was the one to see his body last".

Choking on his own saliva, lungs constricting painfully–

"Italy, please, believe me! It was the only possible solution! He was growing too large, too fast!"

Excuses.

The only possible solution.

Was this how France thought he could explain? Was this why Holy Roman had died? Because that was the only solution possible?

Dead.

He couldn't be–

Dead.

"_Remember the story I told you, little Ita? About Icarus and his wings?"_ forceful and unwanted, the memory of the day Grandpa Rome died resurfaced in his mind.

He'd died away with a soft smile on his lips, with only two souls at his side, the one who killed him and his little Italy, and there had been no hatred no animosity in that goodbye, with Rome's last words directed to his little angel.

"_Don't wish for more than you can have. Power can corrupt, and fear is not respect. Never attempt to become as big as I was, because if you get too close to the sun with your beautiful wings…"_

Italy had promised him. he would never end like Icarus did –plummeting down to his death because he'd wanted to fly too high.

Rome had done that, and he'd been taken down. And even Germania, the one who had, in the end, been as burning as the sun, was close to dying himself. An era was coming to an end, and even if young, Italy had understood it.

"The only possible solution," he repeated, trying to shake himself out from his sudden lethargy. "He had demanded too much, flying too high, wanting too many territories, taking away freedom from other Nations".

France blinked, his hand stopping suddenly. He had not expected Italy to understand.

Of course he should have known better… Italy wasn't an idiot. He simply looked like one, with an open, bright expression that often was mistaken for stupidity.

"Oui, he was… a threat," the Frenchman continued, his insides twisting painfully. "Italy, you need to know that I've never–"

"No!"

France closed his mouth, taken aback. Italy turned towards him, lips stretched into a smile, automatic and empty.

"I… I understand, of course. He couldn't be allowed to reach the sky".

Gulping down his uneasiness, not really understanding what Italy was talking about, France shook his head and made to grab his arm, still worried. "Feli–"

His hand was slapped away.

"No," the Italian Nation murmured, shaking his head. He was struggling already, trying to keep that smile on his lips. He couldn't face France. He couldn't stare into the eyes that had seen _his_ death. "I can't, Francis. Not now".

As he ran out of the inn, a retreat faster than any other and without looking back, France crumbled down on the chair and hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Italy ran.

His entire body felt numb, and even the pain of his hurt leg didn't reach his brain as he swayed and stumbled away from the inn, eyes wide in shock.

He couldn't even see where he was going, but a single image kept reappearing in his mind over and over –a pair of impossibly blue eyes looking at him with affection and love, and a warm, reassuring voice telling him that everything would be ok…

"It's not ok".

He ran faster.

"It'll never be ok, Holy Roman…"

His chest was burning –a strong, devastating pain unlike any other was growing inside him, slashing and gnawing at his insides, roaring its ugly head, choking him. He ran and ran, trying to escape but unable to leave it behind.

HRE was dead.

He screamed.

It tore out of his throat and lungs, the sound echoing around him in vain, because the only thing he could hear was his own heart thumping, blood rushing through his ears, and the burning of his chest as he desperately tried to breathe–

_HRE was dead_

Nails clawing at the grass under him, advancing like an animal, unable to stand back up again, wheezing and sobbing and screaming again–

"You promised you would come back! You promised it would be ok! I've waited so long for you, but you… you…"

He screamed and screamed and cried, choking on his bile and vomiting on the grass, emptying his stomach and gasping out over and over, clutching at the ground in a vain attempt to anchor himself to reality, punching the grass, biting down on his lips so hard they bled–

He would never come back.

_Never._

The world was moving still, but HRE wasn't there anymore.

"_No matter how many hundreds of years go by, I'll always love you more than anyone in the world!"_

Gone. He would never see his face again, that warm, hesitant smile, that adorable flush on his cheeks. His hands caressing his cheek, his blue eyes.

His first love was dead.

Nothing remained but memories. No more promises, no more hopes for a future together, hopes that had allowed Italy to fight and grow strong, keeping his promise to him–

_He was gone forever._

That parenthesis of happiness that would never return.

Italy's heart simply broke.

He was alone. The only person he'd loved was gone, the only person that had loved him for who he was, not caring if he was weak and clumsy and useless, offered him flowers and company, making him happy…

Abandoned on the grass, gasping and crying and sobbing his pain out, Italy could feel, deep inside himself, the happiness of his people celebrating their final victory, a capital for their Nation, finally complete.

He cried harder.

_It was not ok._

…-…-…-…-…-…-…

**SOY:** that was it. Please do leave a comment if you liked, it would really mean a lot to me…

_Siamo una nazione, finalmente! (Italian)_ – We're finally a nation!

_Petites Italies (French)_ – Little Italies

_Petite Italie (French)_ – Little Italy

_Certo (Italian)_ – of course, sure


	8. Wounded Pride and Loss

**SOY:** the end of the chapter might surprise you. I have to admit _I _was surprised when I wrote it. This has been sitting in my hard drive enough as it is, so you can get it, please enjoy! Also, this chapter might be a bit… uh. Yeah.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: Rated M.

**Chapter Warnings:**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Growing to…**

**Chapter 05 – Wounded pride and loss**

Germany stood in front of the closed door, unmoving, his eyes the only thing moving from side to side.

He was waiting.

Almost a week had passed since his 'talk' with Austria, and he had not been able to see Italy ever since then; his decision to ignore the Austrian Nation's words had been kept, and he had refused to return to Austria's house either.

Italy had apparently vanished, though, and not even the spies Germany had sent around to check for him had reported anything amiss.

The Italian nation was simply gone.

Five days. Germany had barely slept at night, unable to understand why his body couldn't relax, why his muscles were still tense, why his shoulders screamed in pain yet he could not rest.

Maybe he could impute all of that to Italy missing from his life, as the bed felt empty and far too big and cold now, whereas before the silly Nation had entered his life it had been perfect and fit for Germany's body only.

It was surely Italy's fault –he kept sliding in his house to sleep at his side, and of course someone like Germany could get used to that…

Germany could barely sleep without Italy's presence at his side, without knowing that he was fine (and not causing mayhem somewhere else), with his soft breathing and the warmth Germany had grown accustomed to.

With the Italian Nation at his side, everything had felt fine.

Now, though…

Germany's hands clenched into fists unconsciously.

Things were not fine anymore.

There were many things he'd thought about during the last few days, first of all Italy's disappearance and the truth of what he felt in regards to him (he just had to face him and demand an explanation, right? Then at least things would go back to how they were), but the nagging feeling he should give Austria's words some credit was ignored.

It was better to worry about Italy's disappearance than any insult Austria could throw at him.

He had been called by his boss early in the morning, and that was the reason he was standing in front of the closed door, waiting to be let in; he knew why he was there –to finally receive the explanations he deserved as a Nation. He was sure of it.

It was worth it –the excruciating wait, his troops being sent to battle whilst he had to stay home and train more soldiers, the lack of recent news, his headaches and backaches, the throbs of pain he'd felt through his body.

He would surely get the answers he needed and with that… he'd finally show Austria that he was wrong. That there was nothing to doubt in his boss.

Austria was wrong. Germany didn't need actual confirmation for that (of course he didn't! he'd never turn his back to his boss), because how could it be otherwise? A boss always fought for his nation.

And about Italy…

Germany would ask permission to go search for him. He had to. He couldn't stay alone in the house anymore, there were so many unresolved things between them, and Italy would surely get caught or hurt himself without Germany around to help.

Besides…

Germany needed reassurance on his feelings –that they were fleeting, that they meant nothing, that France's words back then meant nothing… that things could go back to how they were before. With them being simply friends, not something… not something more.

No words of lo… no words of affection.

No mental images of bodies arching in pleasure, glistening with sweat, lips parted to cry out Germany's name…

He would fix everything.

And maybe afterwards, he could truly rest for the first time in… months? Years? He wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he last rested for real.

Why was his body hurting so much lately? Why was it so hard to concentrate even on the smallest things? Surely it wasn't because of Italy's attitude or disappearance. Why was it so hard to sleep during the night…?

'_You could ask for the reports, instead of just reassurance words. You could ask why you ache so much. What the reason of your headaches is…'_ a part of his brain hissed, sounding so much like Austria that Germany recoiled from it, angered at himself for even thinking something like that.

He couldn't allow doubt to filter into his thoughts –he was stronger than that. Doubt was allowed to others, like Austria, because they were not Germany. They didn't have to believe his boss. He had.

Tiredness couldn't justify such abhorring thoughts.

Finally, after what felt like hours of standing, body aching to sit and relax, the door of the office opened.

The wood cracked slightly, alerting Germany's tired mind and he finally shifted from his position, stepping into the room with his back straight.

His blue eyes flickered from side to side, mentally controlling the door, listing off everything he saw in there, surprised at the normal appearance of the office.

There were a few photos on the walls, of men Germany knew, and others he had only heard of, and there were bookshelves filled with foreign titles, some even in Italian, and of course his boss' personal book.

Germany, with all the work he had to do, had yet to read it.

And of course, _**he**_ was standing in front of him, on the other end of the desk.

He wasn't by far the tallest person Germany had seen –actually, he was barely Italy's height… and yet, his attitude, his stance… everything of him spoke of power, the aura of a strong man in a strong position.

Steely eyes stared deeply at him, and Germany found himself under scrutiny, fighting the need to back away from that man; he was so different from his other rulers… there was something in him… something that spoke of danger.

He also had changed, in the last few months.

"My nation…" that rough, low tone, broken with a heavy Germany accent, made Ludwig blink, his attention focusing on his boss. "Have you been following my instructions?"

Germany brought his hand to his head in a salute, and bit back any words he might have wanted to say, simply nodding.

Of course. He would never betray his boss, like his boss would never betray his Nation.

Germany's arms ached.

"Yes, I thought you would. You are the perfect soldier… this country" the man, that human, stood up, rounding the desk to reach Germany's side, observing him with appreciation. Germany once again fought the urge to back away, surprised at his own reactions.

He couldn't understand that person. He wasn't properly his _own_, but there was something lurking under the surface, something that made Germany's skin tingle unpleasantly.

Was it the eyes? Or his dark, clipped tone? He didn't know.

But for the first time, ever since his visit to Austria, Germany found himself suppressing an involuntary, strong wave of fear.

Eyes observing his hair, meeting his eyes, shifting to his soldier built…

"It's almost admirable how the country's personification himself is showing the traits of the perfect man," that man continued talking, as if to himself. He stopped circling, but his eyes were still dark, appraising. "Inspiring your children to fight for this ideal… to fight for perfection… to achieve it, until only _this_ will be standing –the Arian race".

Germany gulped down his uneasiness. He wasn't sure of what that man was talking about, and deep down he was not sure he _wanted_ to know.

Besides, a soldier didn't have to know of his superior's thoughts, was it? Even if that soldier was the Nation itself.

"You might be wondering why I called you here," suddenly, the human was moving away from him, and Germany let out a shuddery breath.

With a startled, soundless gasp, the German nation realised he had been holding his breath ever since his boss had moved to his side, circling him and observing him; blue eyes open wide, he observed the man move away without relaxing, muscles aching.

This was his leader… the man who was commanding his whole nation.

He continued referring to him as 'human', somehow never daring to speak his name. why was that? He'd never had any trouble before, and yet now he needed to stress the fact that this was a human.

"You have been training your troops alongside the… human personification of our ally, Italy," the Führer sat back down on his seat, shifting reports and papers to one side, and inching a single sheet towards Germany. "I was told you have been in… good relations with each other, as was expected of you".

Ludwig felt his cheeks burn in shame. He hoped no word of Italy's actions had actually escaped his grounds, because he knew that… certain ideas… certain actions and attitudes and _desires_ were forbidden by this _person_ –his boss.

And he had been experiencing such desires, all the while _knowing_ he couldn't defy his own boss.

But no, Germany had done nothing in regards to his inner thoughts, and he was not going to act upon them either. Nor would Italy, of course. Apart his gentleness, his smiles and warm actions, Italy had always been proper on that account (disregarding his running around naked, but these things had not been discovered by humans, right?).

Yet, he remained in silence, not answering. Deep inside, he knew he had nothing to fear, and that this man's ideas had nothing to do with his own. But he had to respect the man and bow to him anyway.

"Yes, of course" the one–sided conversation continued. "Unfortunately, I thought I would have to be the one to give you this information… to avoid any unpleasant reactions. I am sure you understand what this means."

Germany stared down at the offered paper, and slowly held out his hand to grab it. His boss' face was still emotionless, showing nothing of his inner thoughts, and waited patiently for his nation to read.

There was a flash of something passing through his eyes when Germany closed his fist around the paper, trembling slightly in shock.

With a suddenly dry mouth, Germany looked back up at his boss, feeling lost.

"This…"

"Is the truth. We have received formal dispatching by the Allies that Italy accepted an armistice and will be deserting our side".

The world suddenly lost focus around Germany, almost as if he was floating into nothingness. His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest that he felt it would explode.

Italy had… Italy _had_…

"You surely understand that we have to take immediate countermeasures to prevent leaking of information and any losses we might suffer" whilst his voice was still calm and controlled, those dark eyes were burning up. "Any Italian soldiers not repenting from their troops will be shot or deported, and all troops will be informed of this status. We cannot allow this betrayal to go unpunished. Furthermore, my dear nation, you are the only one whom I'd trust for this mission… march through the northern Italian territories and make them _ours_".

Germany's brain was having a hard time focusing on his boss' words. Part of it was listening, assimilating his new orders, yet the rest of him couldn't think of anything else but those words on the paper.

The Italian soldiers had deserted, switching sides to join with the Allies and proclaiming war against Germany.

The Allies had gained aid in South Italy thanks to the current mafia bosses, and were marching through Italy to chase any German soldier out.

The people were acting up. The soldiers were fighting one against the other, split in two.

_Italy had switched sides._

Italy had abandoned him.

The thought hit him like a punch on his face, shoving all air out of his lungs.

Betrayal.

Italy had betrayed him. Italy had left.

No, he couldn't believe this.

Feliciano… _Italy_… he would _never_ betray their pact. It had been something shared between the two of them. _Italy had said he loved him_. How could…

But he had his proof now. Italy _had_ betrayed him. His trips to France… he had been lying then, too? Was he already thinking about switching sides? How much did he tell them? How many secrets did he reveal? How many tactics had been explained?

Why… why Italy?

'_Feliciano is weak, and he acts like a stupid all the time, and he's too obsessed with pasta…'_ Ludwig felt his heart twist. _'But that… that doesn't mean anything now, does it? His words were for naught. His heartfelt speeches meant nothing in the end…'_

Betrayal.

Germany had never felt so empty ever before. No pain, no confusion could par with what he felt now.

_It hurt._

It ripped something deep inside his chest, pushing and pulling and _burning_. He vaguely felt wetness at the corners of his eyes, but valiantly fought it back.

Were those tears? He had never cried before. He couldn't cry. _Why_ would he? It was a war. And Italy had… Italy had…

He had considered Italy his _friend_, especially after everything the other Nation had said. All his friendly speeches, all his touchy-feelings, all his closeness, his words, and actions… he had leaned on the other country not as an ally, but as a friend.

His first friend.

Someone he could rely on, despite Italy's inability during battles, despite his clumsiness, despite everything… he had ended up trusting him. Depending on the small, apparent unimportant details that made their daily relationships so much more…

"_Ve, Ludwig~ let's be friends, aren't we friends? Hug! Hug!"_

Special.

"_Let's be friends forever! Don't ever abandon me!"_

Lies.

Coldness seeped through his body, icy and painful, anger and betrayal taking roots deep inside his chest, washing away any warmth he might have had before.

He'd accepted someone into his heart. He'd allowed Italy to get close, so close… and that was his reward.

He realised, through his suddenly sharp mind, that his boss was still talking. Abruptly, he turned his whole attention to him.

He'd been a fool to doubt. There was nothing else left but this.

"You will follow my orders, right? After all, whilst our alliance with Japan is still on, we've lost our closest ally to the enemy. We can't allow ourselves to show a weak side or let this go".

Germany gritted his teeth, bowing to his boss and leaving the room in a hurry.

He had many things to do, many orders to send, many troops to prepare.

The office was silent for a long while after the Nation had disappeared without even asking to be dismissed, but the man didn't mind.

Slowly, each movement done with extreme languidness, Germany's boss, the man known as Adolf Hitler, stood back up, his lips firmly pressed together in a thin line.

A wounded animal always showed its claws in the wildest way possible. The Führer knew this. No human was immune to this, and for how superior and… definitely not completely human those Nations were, they were not immune to betrayal and pain either.

A smirk slowly disfigured the previously emotionless features.

Behind him, the clock ticked in the silence.

Time rushed forwards.

…–…–…–…

"Feliciano…"

Italy didn't answer.

Motionless, he continued to look to the side, just like the previous day, and the day before that. He refused to speak, eyes determinedly set anywhere but on his brother, who kept returning despite being ignored, only to leave beaten and utterly powerless.

Romano knew what Italy was going through –it had been his decision in the end, if only to protect his brother from what was happening– but he knew that Italy was well aware of the his reasons, and yet…

Yet, South Italy was going to take responsibility and wait and persevere, because he knew his little brother needed time to accept everything.

The pain of having to stay away from Germany… Romano might have hated the potato–bastard, and he still hated him for hurting Italy like that, but… but Italy… oh, his brother loved him.

How could someone as sweet and innocent as Italy end up loving that bastard German… no, he didn't understand it.

But he knew what it meant to stay away from someone he cared for. And it was bad enough that the one Romano cared for was keeping himself out of the war, he could barely hope to understand what it meant to be on opposite sides.

Yes, Romano could understand.

But Italy was refusing to move, refusing to eat… he could not go on too much like that. He had to snap out of it.

"Feli, _per favore_…" with a pained gaze, Romano pushed the plate of pasta towards his brother, trying to reach deep inside himself to nudge at his brother through the something they shared as same country, but he encountered a cold, barren wall once more.

Italy didn't even turn around.

"Arthur said you've been like this since I left, four days ago" South Italy continued, shaking his head in despair. "You can't continue like this… eat something, please!"

Italy's eyes flickered to the food he was offered with no interest. It was pasta, obviously, because his brother was trying to lure him with his favourite food. It was hard to get by, nowadays, for his brother as well, but Italy had no intentions to cave in.

He could go some more without food, and until he truly had to, he would not eat.

He didn't want to eat, he didn't want to be there, he didn't want to leave his room and have to accept that he'd left Germany. He didn't want to feel the many Italians dying on the Allies side, so he kept that part of him shut close.

Italy knew better than to just hate the Allies. They were just like him, Nations involved in wars that only belonged to humans. Nations never ended up creating anything that was as painful and devastating as the many weapons humans could create, just like at the same time, they could never create something as beautiful as human art and literature.

They could only exist, and Italy would never step so low as to blame England, America, China, Russia or France for forcing him to switch sides.

In the end, no war would truly make them hate each other, no matter how many years could pass by.

England had once been Japan's friend (Japan had been the one to tell Italy, of course, during one of their lazy afternoons under the _kotatsu_), yet they were on opposite sides now.

America and England had been enemies once, and now they were fighting together, albeit hesitantly –America was, in the end, young. As young as Germany.

Italy understood everything, and yet he couldn't stop the contempt he felt inside. He could see how they looked at him –England shifting and struggling to say something, china trying to reach out to him, to comfort him… only to shy away.

He'd seen Russia's behaviour slip over and over, cracking like a broken light every time the conversation touched determinate subjects.

They were all in pain, and it was always war, war, war –that was why Italy hated it so much, with his whole being.

Yet the fact that he could understand them as much as they could understand him didn't mean he could settle down. They could not help him.

He could not help them, nor himself.

"Feli… _dannazione_! Eat something! _**Say**_ something!" Romano slammed his fist against the wall, gritting his teeth in anger and trying to hide his tears. "Did you really think your intervention would change something? We are… weak! Fuck it, we're weak! We tried out best but it'd never be enough, on either side!"

Italy blinked, slowly shaking his head.

It didn't matter. Even if weak, he still wanted to try and help Germany. Stay at his side until he realised how bad the situation was, even if it meant Italy would crumble… why couldn't Romano understand?

If he let Germany go, it would be the same thing once again. Just like with Holy…

"I want to be on the right side, for once, Feliciano!" South Italy's eyes were burning with anger and tears, his tone trembling. "Germany has to be stopped!"

What was it not to understand? Italy could see it so clearly. It wasn't Germany that had to be stopped. It was his boss. It was his soldiers, his people. But Germany was only doing what he thought was best –trusting his own leader.

But if Romano couldn't understand why he was doing this… what was the point in talking?

"Feli…"

Slumping down next to the bed, Romano gathered one of Italy's hands into his own, clutching at it.

They had never been on the opposite sides ever before, not like this. Romano couldn't accept this. They were fucking brothers!

"Feli… you're the only brother I have… you can't be thinking about giving up your… _our_ independence just for that potato bastard!" the hold on his hand tightened painfully, and Italy stifled a gasp. "He's used you all this time, and it was wrong to side with him in the first place… it's not worth it, it has never been worth it!"

Italy finally shifted, eyes moving from the floor to Romano's face, and the older brother gasped and moved away, releasing Italy's hand in shock at what he saw reflected in those brown eyes.

'_Isn't it worth it?'_

There was a part of Italy that wanted to explain Romano that he was wrong –that if there was someone to blame, that was Germany's boss, not Germany himself– and he wanted to tell him that he couldn't just make his heart ache either, and he wanted to pour in his brother the pain he was feeling, but he didn't.

Maybe he was usually weak, and he refused to understand war, and he deliberately tried to turn his back to how it was going, to how much pain Germany was in, denying that there was a problem and only trying to keep that apparent bubble of happiness, but… he knew he could not deny the truth of Romano's words anymore.

Things were bad. Really bad.

He could understand why his brother had wanted to switch sides, and if not for his feelings for Germany, he wouldn't have protested, but…

But he wanted to be at Germany's side, and that was it.

It could be wrong, it could be stupid, and Romano was right, of course… but it didn't matter to him.

This was his decision –in the end, he wanted to be selfish and make his own decision, and choose with whom to side with… even if that brought him to the end, even if Italy ended up destroyed.

'_Once, I decided to stay back, and I lost him… and now that I'm given another chance, I can't back away, I can't let him go down alone…'_

In his mind, _his_ face intertwined with that of Germany over and over, and Italy shook his head, looking back down at the bed.

They were not the same, but history was repeating itself, and Italy didn't want to be left behind anymore, even if there was nothing he could do.

"_To be at your love's side… to be able to support them, to be able to hold them close, is there something you wouldn't do?"_

Italy couldn't remember who had said that –someone in his past, someone that had known him.

"No," he murmured, not even aware he was speaking aloud.

He could not allow Germany to be alone. He was different from Holy Roman Empire, and Italy was going to stand back up and support him with the little things he could do. Times were different, now he could at least try.

And… and Germany was not flapping his wings too high on his own. He was forced to follow someone else's desires, whilst HRE had been trying to reach a sky too far up.

If that meant Italy had to fly up to reach his Germany, and then fall down to his demise at his side, then so be it.

Was there even a choice for him? It was so clear.

"Feli…? What did you say…?"

His insides twisting painfully, Italy straightened his back, and Romano once again backed away, watching in surprise as his little brother stood up from the bed.

They were equally tall, and there were so many similarities between them that they might have passed as twins instead of just brothers, yet South Italy was acutely aware of the differences between them when Italy looked up at him again, eyes meeting.

There was a determination in them that he had never seen before.

"_Fratellone_," he murmured. "you're the only brother I have".

His voice was low and raspy, his throat raw for the lack of water, but still clear enough for South Italy to understand him.

"Feli…? What are you–"

Stepping forwards, his legs almost giving up under him, Italy opened his arms wide and pressed against Romano's chest, holding him close. South Italy gasped but did not recoil from the touch, yet he did not hug him back, too surprised by this sudden closeness to be able to react.

Romano felt something pass through their shared connection, but he couldn't understand.

"Feliciano…?"

For a moment, Italy took a deep breath, allowing his brother's scent to fill his lungs. Familiar and welcome, it spoke of brotherly love and banters and afternoons spent working on fields, harvesting tomatoes.

With as much gentleness as he could muster, Italy leaned forwards, meeting his brother's lips with his own. The touch was brief and soft, a simple kiss with whom Italy conveyed as much as he could.

There was warmth and there was sadness and regret and he silently asked for forgiveness.

That he loved his brother so much, yet this time…

He pulled back and shoved Romano away with barely enough strength to make him move, but South Italy was so surprised that he staggered back anyway.

"_Grazie_, Lovi," he stated, smiling. "Please, take care of yourself, ok?"

"… Feli? W–what are you saying, you're scaring me–"

Lips stretching into a bigger smile, Italy grabbed Romano's hand into his own. South Italy shivered at the cold touch. "If there has to be an Italy, Lovi, then you're really the only one that can be it".

His heart ached. He wanted to make things right, but there was no way they could ever be right, and his decision, even if it was right _for him_, it was not _right_.

Consciously, Italy was renouncing to something he could _not_ renounce to, because you couldn't just give up on being a Nation, but…

Romano didn't catch the meaning of his brother's words until it was too late and Italy had already backed away from him, hands curled up inside the long sleeves of his shirt, and when he jumped forwards, hands outstretched to stop him, Italy had already jumped towards the window, crashing through it.

Shards exploded everywhere and Romano shrunk back with a gasp, watching in shock as Italy fell down from the second floor of the building. Being a Nation, the fall didn't hurt him as it would have with a human, so he recovered from the hit and stood up, wheezing and gasping.

"_**Feliciano!**_" South Italy reached the broken window and glanced up, worried.

Not turning his back anymore, afraid that his determination would waver if he were to see his brother's face, Italy gritted his teeth and ran away.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** that was it. Please do leave a comment if you liked, it would really mean a lot to me…

_Per favore (Italian) – _please

_Grazie (Italian) – _Thank you

_Kotatsu (Japanese) – _heated table

_Dannazione (Italian) –_ damn it

_Fratellone (Italian) – _older brother


End file.
